Page 12 of Loving Lucia

“Yep. I think I will find somebody to fuck after all.” I flip him off as I leave the office and return to my own bedroom.

I look around the room, and there really isn’t all that much that I want to take with me. I pack my guns and rifles and dig out my stash of cash. I stuff a few clothes into a duffle bag, just enough for two weeks. If I need more, I can always buy some later. There are a few gifts from Victor and Saint that I consider taking along, but in the end, none of it means much.

It’s not exactly packing light, with all the guns, but I manage to sneak things out without anybody noticing. It’s not weird for me to take my arsenal out to the garage, after all. Just packing for a new job.

I drive into the city, meandering around for a while, before I park by the boardwalk, in the same lot as when we’d lost Lucia.

I take a long sigh, grab my phone, and head out to the beach, doing the walk that Saint and I had meant to go on with Lucia.

It’s still midday, and I’m alone. There’s nothing romantic about this little beachside walk. But I guess it was never going to be anything romantic, with Lucia barely tolerating any of us and Saint in his own head, desperate to not appear even a little gay. And Victor’s presence looming over all of us, part of the set but not included.

I think I might have been happy for a hot second there, though.

Fuck, I’m not made for this sentimental crap. Maybe this is why Victor hides his emotions. He can’t deal withfeeling.

I take my shoes off and sit down in the sand, close enough that the tide can wash over my feet.

“Nico, what would you do?” I ask the ocean. There’s no response, and I feel stupid for even having asked, with all the tourists doing their own thing around me.

The real answer is that Nico is dead, and he has no opinions on Bellini or Pavone. He used to smile a lot, especially when he talked about his family, but he was quick to punish anybody who crossed him. In that sense, he wouldn’t have put up with Bellini.

He wasn’t putting up with Bellini, up until that moment when he was shot.

I need to do what I can to make things right. I need to take the anger I feel when I remember Nico’s bleeding body and channel it into something productive.

Staying with Victor isn’t productive. I enjoy taking out Bellini’s men, but there’s an endless horde of associates and soldiers, all willing to die for him. That’s not even counting Pavone’s men.

And while I’m out there, killing and possibly getting killed, Lucia is sitting in Pavone’s lap, playing with the devil himself.

Fuck, I’m so pissed at her for leaving us. I want to wring her neck myself, make her scream and beg for forgiveness. If she apologizes, I might even fuck her nicely.

I reach into my pocket, and I take out the scrap of paper with the phone number on it. There’s blood soaked into the edges of the paper, thanks to the corpse the paper had been pinned to.

Part of me wants to rip the paper into scraps and throw them into the ocean. I can’t believe I’m even thinking of calling.

But staying where I am, doing what I’ve been doing, won’t lead anywhere. And if Victor and Saint have no time for me, if they don’t give a shit about me—I don’t know why I should care about them.

I dial the number.

Somebody picks up after the first ring. “Damien Rossi.”

“Hi, Damien,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I got your job offer. Guess I’m not surprised, since Al Ricci kicked it so suddenly. You’re really short a decent sniper.”

There’s a pause, before Rossi answers, “Angelo Guerra, I presume?”

“Y’know, it’s pretty ballsy, asking Victor Corvi’s right hand man to defect.” I pick up a handful of sand and let it fall back to the ground. “You’d better have a very, very good offer.”

5

LUCIA

With only one month to go before the wedding, I don’t know how Pavone plans to make thisthewedding of the decade, but he’s certainly giving it a shot.

The wedding planner is obviously not used to working with the mob, and she doesn’t understand the meaning of get this doneright now. I’d feel bad for her if I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for myself.

“What about this shade of blue?” she pesters me.

I realize she’s been showing me color swatches, and I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I don’t care,” I tell her. “It’s all blue.”

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