Matty cupped Genna's chin with one of his hands, the other still around her. Slowly, he leaned down, kissing her, taking his time to savor the moment.
"Mrs. Barsanti," he whispered against her lips, loud enough only for her to hear.
"I'm not taking your last name," she whispered back.
"I don't blame you," he said. "So, how about that honeymoon now?"
"You can suck your own dick in the Honda."
"Tempting, but I was thinking about Paris, actually."
"Paris?"
"Paris Hotel and Casino," he whispered. "How about we go see that other Eiffel Tower?"
Chapter Nine
Soho.
Dante could count the number of times he'd visited the neighborhood on one hand. He'd driven through it while on missions from his father. Once, he threw caution to the wind and went home with a girl who lived there. And then there was that time, not long ago, when he confronted the Barsanti brothers, when he'd lost control and somebody ended up dead.
It was a mistake, he knew. He'd had no business going to Soho.
It was just asking for trouble.
So why, yet again, did he find himself there?
There, on the wrong side of that invisible boundary. It was pointless now, he figured. Nowhere was safe. He'd been attacked in East Harlem, somewhere the Barsantis just didn't go. That had all changed, though, because of Matteo. He'd flown into town in that goddamn red sports car, violating every rule the families had established, blurring lines and inviting himself where he didn't belong.
Dante didn't blame Genna. She'd been innocent. She didn't know what their world was like. She didn't remember. But Matteo should've known better.
Because of him, everything was different.
Dante hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the brick building, gazing up at the faded sign near the entrance. The Place.
Here goes nothing.
Opening the door, Dante stepped inside the busy bar. Chatter echoed throughout the place, dozens of men hanging around, socializing. There was almost a happy undercurrent, an excited buzz in the air, but it didn't last long.
Someone noticed him, recognizing his face, and that was all it took. The whispers started, passed along from person to person like a game of Telephone. It was so blatant that Dante trailed the gossiping with his eyes.
It took less than a minute for the whispers to reach everyone. Men gawked, and sneered, a few even prematurely reaching for weapons. The only person who didn't seem to react was the man standing at the far end of the bar. His back was to Dante, his shoulders relaxed, like he had not a care in the world.
Roberto Barsanti.
Dante took a deep breath before approaching the bar near where Barsanti stood. No sudden movements. Gotta stay calm. Even a hint of agitation could get him shot.
"A Coke," he ordered, stopping in front of the bartender.
The guy glared at Dante, blinking a few times. He made no move to get the drink or even acknowledge Dante had spoken at all.
A throat cleared. "Get the boy his drink."
The bartender's posture slumped as he muttered, "Yes, sir."
"I'm not looking for trouble," Dante said right away as he glanced beside him at Barsanti.
"Oh, I don't buy that for a second," Barsanti said. "You wouldn't have come here unless trouble was what you were looking for."
The bartender set a small glass filled with ice against the bar, pouring some soda into it before shoving it toward him. Dante nodded his gratitude as he picked up the drink. "How do you know I wasn't just so appreciative of your hospitality that I decided to come by for another visit?"
A slight smirk touched the corners of Barsanti's lips. "In that case, how about a tour?"
"I think I've seen most of it," Dante said. "Saw the basement, now I'm seeing the bar… all that's left is whatever's up above."
"Nothing's upstairs," Barsanti said. "My boys used to live up there, but not anymore."
Dante's eyes flickered to the ceiling. Huh.
Barsanti rubbed his mouth, tapping his fingertips against his chapped lips. He was thinking, probably about what to do with Dante. Kill him or humor him? Dante figured he had fifty-fifty odds. After a moment, the man turned, motioning to the bartender. "Give me a bottle of our best Scotch."
The bartender snatched an unopened bottle off the wall behind the bar. Barsanti took it, swiping two clean glasses.
"Come." Barsanti motioned for Dante to follow him. "Join me."
A part of Dante wanted to plant firmly in spot, refusing to follow that order, because it went against everything he'd always stood for. Just being there made him sick to his stomach. It felt inherently wrong. But another part of him, the part that had led him to Soho in the first place, reminded him he had nothing to lose.
Kill him, Barsanti might, but he could've done it weeks ago if he'd wanted. Besides, killing him at that point would've been merciful.
So Dante trailed the man to the back of the bar, into an offshoot room filled with pool tables. Barsanti set the bottle of Scotch and the glasses down on a small table inside the door before sticking two fingers to his lips and letting out a loud whistle that stalled everyone.
"Out," he barked, not needing to say another word. The handful of men shuffled toward the door, shooting Dante some unpleasant looks.
"Do you play?" Barsanti asked once they were alone, picking up a pool stick that was leaning against a nearby wall.
"I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Dante said.
Barsanti returned the stick to the holder before grabbing another, cleaning up. Dante watched the man make a quick sweep of the room, straightening everything up, before returning to his bottle of Scotch.
"I've heard about your occasional hustle," Barsanti said. "I've heard a lot about you, in fact. I like to stay on top of things, and people, they always seem to have a lot to say about you."
"I can't imagine why."
Barsanti opened the bottle, pouring a bit in each of the glasses. He nudged one toward Dante before picking up the other and swallowing the liquor. "Word on the street is that you don't remember anything, that you have no idea what happened to you, but the fact that you're here tells me differently. You wouldn't have come without a reason."
Dante hesitated, eyeing the liquor. He set his glass of soda down beside it, having no interest in drinking either one. "I want to know why you didn't kill me."
Barsanti considered that as he poured himself more Scotch. "Would you rather I did?"
Dante didn't answer.
"You know, I was about your age when I came into power," Barsanti continued. "It wasn't easy, but it worked, because your father and I had come to an understanding. We respected each other. We worked together. He even made me your godfather, you know."
Dante glared at him. "I know."
"But something changed. I don't know when, or why, but we lost it. Respect turned to suspicion, and eventually, we cared about territory more than anything. So your father attacked, and I retaliated. Figured that would be the end of that, but Primo, ah… he doesn't know when to let things go."
"You killed his son."
"And you killed mine," Barsanti said, a hard edge to his voice, as he pointed at Dante with his glass. "You can be angry, and you can hate me, but don't be a hypocrite."
"What happened to Enzo wasn't intentional."
"You aimed your gun at him and pulled the trigger. It doesn't get much more deliberate."
"Then why let me live?"
Barsanti swallowed his Scotch before setting the glass down. "Because I stood along that street in Little Italy as my son's car burned, and I realized that nothing I could do to your family would ever be as bad as what Primo did. We want revenge for losing our children. Believe me, I'd love nothing more than to see you dead for what you've done. But Primo's got no one to blame for his loss now except himself."
"He doesn't blame himself," Dante said. "It wasn't intentional."
Barsanti let
out a sharp laugh, a bitter edge to it. "You Galantes and your unintentional excuses. Your father used a bomb. A bomb. He had every intention of letting that bomb go off, regardless of who got caught in the blast."
"He wouldn't have—"
"Your sister had enough time to get there," Barsanti said, cutting him off. "Your father knew where she was going, so why did it still happen? Why didn't he stop it?"
"Why didn't you?" Dante asked. "I remember the night my brother died. Your people were lurking. They knew kids were there. So why'd you still let that bomb go off? Didn't you care who got caught in the blast?"
Barsanti was quiet for a moment before saying, "No."
"No?"
"No, I didn't care."
"You're sick."
"Maybe I am," he said, "but at least I'm honest about it."
Rage simmered in Dante's bloodstream. He felt himself shaking. Despicable son of a bitch. Clenching his hands into fists, he turned away, knowing if he didn't get out of there, he'd likely do something that would get him killed.
"To answer your question," Barsanti called after him. "I let you live—not for him, not even for you—I did it for myself. I've lost my children, and I could blame your father, I could blame you, but the fact is, I brought this on them. I did. It was my job to protect them, and I failed. So I let you live, because I'd murdered a son once and look what that got me. I didn't want to murder another. It wasn't worth it."
Dante walked through the bar, heading for the exit. He'd damn near made it when someone stepped right into his path, blocking him. Dante's muscles coiled at the familiar faces.
The Civello brothers.
Spineless motherfuckers.
That rage he'd tried to quell boiled over, flowing out of him, prickling his skin. He stepped forward, not stopping, bumping right into one of them. Dante looked the guy dead in the eyes. If they expected him to cower, they'd be disappointed.
"Move," Dante said, "or I'll move you myself."
"I'd like to see you try."
Dante shoved against him, knocking him back a few steps, right into his brother. Before the guy could try to come at him, Dante took another step forward, toe-to-toe again. "If you think I'm afraid of you, you're wrong. You're nobody. You're nothing. You might've got one over on me before but never again. Next time you get in my way, you'll be cut down. Permanently."
"Ohh, strong words from such a weak little boy that couldn't even protect his baby sister."
Dante didn't think. He didn't care. Those words hit him and he swung. His fist collided with a jaw, knocking the guy back, making him lose his footing.
At once, people swarmed them.
Hands grabbed Dante, yanking him back as others threw punches. Pain tore through him, rippling down his spine when he was thrown into a nearby wall. He gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, a fist slamming into his gut, over and over. Dante fought back, blindly swinging, a blur of bodies surrounding him, attacking.
The Civello boy got up from the ground, reaching into his pocket. Dante spotted the knife in his hand as he flipped it open, coming at him. Before he could defend himself, the door to the bar swung open.
Fucking reinforcements.
Panic threatened to consume Dante, but when his eyes darted that way, he saw a familiar face. Umberto. Galante soldiers flanked him, rushing inside, ten seconds too late to stop what was happening. The blade sliced into Dante, searing pain tearing through his side. He growled, clenching his teeth, as chaos erupted. Weapons were pulled, guns aiming at heads.
"Enough!" a voice bellowed through the bar. Barsanti. He didn't approach, but the lone word was enough for them to press pause. Barsanti's men lowered their guns as Dante was released, the hostile mob around him retreating.
Dante clutched his bleeding side, staggering toward the door, shoving through the crowd. He stepped in front of Umberto, his old friend's gun inadvertently pointing at him.
Dante continued to the door, moving around his father's men, not addressing any of them. Stepping out into the warm night air, Dante inhaled sharply, pulling up his shirt to examine his side. Blood streamed from the wound. Not so much that he would bleed to death in the street but enough be concerning.
"What the fuck, Dante!" Umberto spat, storming out of the bar behind him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Dante groaned. "The son of a bitch got me."
Umberto looked at the wound as he shook his head, muttering under his breath, "I can't believe you fucking did that. What were you thinking?"
Dante dropped his shirt, covering the wound, as the rest of the Galante men resurfaced. What was he thinking? It was hard to say. "How'd you know I was here?"
"Lucky guess."
"Bullshit," Dante said. "Are you following me?"
Umberto hesitated, not wanting to answer that question, which was all Dante needed to figure it out.
"He ordered you to follow me." Dante shook his head. "Unbelievable."
Truthfully, he wasn't surprised. How many times had his father told him to shadow Genna, to keep an eye on her? Every damn day since the moment she'd learned to walk.
"He was concerned," Umberto said. "You're not acting like yourself."
"Stop following me. I don't need a fucking babysitter. I'm fine. I can take care of myself."
Dante turned, taking a few steps, trying to apply pressure to his side to stop the bleeding.
Umberto quickly caught up, grabbing his arm. "Look, let's get you to the hospital, okay? Get you seen by a doctor."
Dante yanked his arm away. "I don't need a doctor."
"You're hurt."
"I'll live."
"Come on, don't be this way, man. We're friends."
"Are we? Because I thought we were, Bert, but seems to me I was out of sight, out of mind."
Umberto gaped at him, jaw slack. No defense to that.
It would've been nice, he thought, for just a moment, to have someone put him first. It would've been nice to have someone care about him… to have someone miss him.
It would be nice to have someone need him again.
It would've been nice, but that wasn't how it happened. It was never about him. He was just a pawn. Umberto hadn't hesitated to fill his shoes, hadn't hesitated to take his place in the game.
"I have to go," Dante said, walking away.
"Where are you going?" Umberto called out.
Dante didn't stop, mumbling to himself, "To see the only friend I've got."
The town was just a few miles down the highway, not even the size of a Manhattan neighborhood, so small that Genna wasn't sure of its name. Did they bother to give it one? A picture-perfect community, the kind she didn't think existed outside of television. No stoplights. No police. It was Mayberry without Andy Griffith.
Parking the Honda in the small dirt lot, Genna climbed out and glanced around. It was quiet. Too quiet. Birds chirped in the distance as bugs buzzed by her head, but where were the revving engines? The people shouting? The horns blowing?
She'd never get used to it.
Turning, she approached the square building, eyeing it with distaste. The red paint was chipped, exposing tattered old wood, surrounded by stained concrete and topped with a rusted metal roof, like some sort of makeshift barn. Old gas pumps lined the right side, a pair of garage doors raised to the left, with a span of dingy shop windows between them. It looked as if someone had plucked it right out of the 50s and plopped it down in front of her.
Jerry's Garage
It was still functional. Cars surrounded it, two pulled inside with the hoods raised. A guy in blue coveralls leaned over the front of a little Toyota, checking fluids as he whistled along to some song playing on a nearby radio. He caught Genna's eye. "Can I help you?"
He was young, mid-twenties, with sandy-blond hair that looked dirty as hell, somewhat slicked back on his head. Stains covered the front him, grease streaked down the thighs from wiping his hands. A smell clung to him, like some cologne of motor oil with a dash of bod
y odor mixed in. Gross. The guy smiled, his eyes kind, so Genna forgave him for that.
"I was wondering if there were any stores around here where I could buy car parts," she said. "Like a NAPA or a, I don't know... Pep Boys, maybe?"
"I'm afraid not," he said with a laugh before slamming the hood of the car. A small white patch sewn to his chest displayed the name Chris in blue stitching. "Closest you'll find one is Vegas."
"Ugh, I was worried about that."
He pulled a rag out of his pocket to wipe his hands. "We might have what you're looking for here, though. Car giving you trouble?"
His eyes flickered to the Honda out in the lot. Genna shook her head. "Oh, that's working fine. There's actually a car back at the house that needs some work. It's kind of, you know, not working. At all."
She was guessing, anyway. She wasn't sure what was wrong with it.
Her response surprised him. "Oh, you new in town? I haven't seen you around. Figured you were passing though like others."
"We're staying just outside of town, a couple miles down the highway. The place is kind of by itself in the middle of nowhere."
His brow furrowed. "The old Moretti house?"
"Maybe." Moretti. The name sounded familiar to Genna. "If you're thinking about a wooden house that looks like it might be haunted, then yep."
"That's the one," he said. "Never thought I'd see it inhabited. Always heard rumors about a lady living there, though, some crazy recluse. Guess that's not the case. You don't seem to fit the bill."
Live there long enough and I might. "What happened to the lady?"
"Don't know. Not sure she ever existed. Probably just some local urban legend, but anyway..." He leaned back against the Toyota, crossing his arms over his chest. "This car you've got… what do you need for it?"
"Everything, probably. It's been sitting there, rusting away."
"For how long?"
"Years."
"I'm guessing you're trying to get it running?"
"That's the plan."
He stared at her, almost as if he were looking through her, his mind drifting somewhere. Just when his silence was starting to grow uncomfortable, he opened his mouth and rattled off a laundry list of issues. Battery… fluids… tires… brakes… any gas left in it would need to be replaced… carburetor probably shot, would need rebuilt… an oil change was essential… hopefully the engine hadn't suffered damage… "Basically, if it's liquid or rubber, it's gonna need to be replaced."