Page 5 of Enemies in Ruin

I pause at the drops of blood on the ground. Before I can even speak the words to have it cleaned up, the restaurant manager steps forward from wherever he had been hiding and wipes the surface clean. “Good man,” I say.

I inhale the smell of the recently varnished wood. It’s an undertone to the freshly cut flowers and the sweet scent of coffee beans. In just a few hours, the smell of varnish will be consumed when the kitchen starts its prep for tonight’s patrons.

I walk slowly out onto the busy streets. More of my men file out behind me, while the other two have dragged Geno down the side of the building to carry out my orders. That’s the way it should be. I order, and they follow. Geno will learn that lesson today, and if he doesn’t, he’ll find his resting place at the bottom of a river.

Or you could strangle him to death.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mumble.

A police cruiser slows, and the tinted window rolls down. The officer behind the wheel meets my gaze, and I give a little wave of two fingers for him to continue on his drive and mind his business. The window rolls up, and he increases his speed, moving down the road. I walk a few feet to the mouth of the alleyway just as my phone starts to ring.

Taking it out of my pocket, I hit the answer button. The voice on the other end isn’t clear. I can’t hear what’s being said because of Geno’s damn screams. I hold the phone to my chest and let out a long whistle to get my men’s attention. One of them appears, and I wave the phone at him.

“I’m on the phone,” I state, in case he doesn’t get the message. “Keep it down.”

He nods and disappears down the alleyway. The screams cease, and I bring the phone back to my ear.

“Sorry about that. What were you saying?”

“She’s back.”

Chapter 2

Carina

Twenty-One Years Old

DearDiary,

Is it weird that I still keep a diary at twenty-one years old? Yeah? Well, fuck you, too. I have shit to say and no one to say it to, as per usual, so Dear Diary it is.

Sal Fiorelli offered me a job today. Can you believe it? It might be the one thing that redeems this crappy move, because I gotta tell you, the City of Angels ain’t it.

The smog here…unbelievable. It’s its own thing.

And the men…well, they ain’t Luca.

But it’s not just any job. He’s actually giving me something worth doing, something that requires a brain. Which means he thinks I may actually have a brain. I’m not going to write down what the job is because hello…brains…but it involves expanding his bottom line.

I can do that because I’m more than the pretty face Father always saw me for. I’m more than Luca’s wild child.

You watch. I’m going to have this place in the palm of my hand before Daddy Agostino calls me home.

Outsidethewindownextto the table where I sit, New York teems with traffic. Foot, bike, and car…young, old, and everything in between—it doesn’t stop. Taxi horns bleat, the sound audible through the glass panes, and I know if I went outside, I’d be engulfed immediately by the rush and roar of the city.

On the seat across from me, Baccio, my Malinois, sits and watches me as I watch the city. He’s technically my ‘service’ animal—an amiable doctor ruled me a very anxious woman so he could accompany me legally anywhere I required—but really, he’s my best friend and a remarkable guard. He’s worth ten men, and I trust him to have my back more than I trust anything that speaks English or Italian or carries a gun, and that’s a sad fact. Baccio can be found anywhere I am, and usually, people know better than to challenge his presence. New York is new to him, but so far, he seems to like it.

I have men with me—my father insisted on it—but I insisted on their discretion. One is in the car in the parking garage, ensuring no one tampers with the vehicle. One is at the entrance to the garage itself, a deterrent to anyone taking the car guard by surprise. Another is here in the restaurant, but he’s hidden among the patrons so well I couldn’t pick him out unless I looked very carefully.

The Scarpetta crew is good.

I hadn’t realized until I arrived back home a few days ago how much I’d missed being here. New York is an entirely different beast from Los Angeles—one that belches grit and soul instead of breathing sun fire and granola like LA.

Not that I didn’t like my adoptive city. I’d been content to quietly build my own empire in the west, but it’s undeniably good to be home, even if I haven’t quite put my finger on why my father called me back after sending me away in disgrace five years ago.

I’ll figure it out soon enough, I’m sure. Agostino Scarpetta never earned any prizes for subtlety.

As I stir my Bellini, I divert my gaze from outside to glance around the restaurant from the relative privacy of my corner booth. The Bastoni e Pietre is a designated neutral zone in the city, a place where members of any and all mobfamigliacan eat and mingle without fear of falling victim to a hit or reprisal. It stays busy regardless of the hour, like most places in Little Italy, its gleaming dark hardwood floors and burgundy walls paying testament to gossip and deals that we’re careful to keep discreet outside these hallowed halls. Most of the tables in the classy eatery are full even at this midafternoon hour, and people—many I recognize along with a few I don’t—move in and out of my field of vision, some moving past the public areas to the sexy speakeasy in the rear.

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