Her dark salvation, p.14
Her Dark Salvation, page 14
I’d spent the morning trying to figure out how to break the news, but there was no gentle way to say it. We were losing money, and there was more at play than poorly performing hotels and spas. I felt the truth in my bones as sure as I felt the oncoming blizzard. Vinnie’s visit and the Shaughnessy interest in the financial district were too coincidental. But I needed proof. I needed Anna.
I walked past the entrance to Stanza dei Sigari, an iconic feature of Hanover Street and one of the last bastions of another time. A lot of the Italian immigrants had moved out of the North End over the past few decades, out to the suburbs where it was more affordable to buy a house. But there were holdouts, including my family and a handful of restaurants, delis, and bakeries who refused to relinquish the “Little Italy” of Boston.
Vesuvio dominated the second half of the block, windows dark, red marquee dim and waiting for twilight. The high-end nightclub was a front for where I really made money with the property—illegal card games and professional sports betting. The same setup I’d create in the financial district.
I turned down the alley, climbed the back stairs to the second floor, and punched in the door code. Enzo stood behind the bar cleaning glasses, and the only other person on the floor was Luca. He sat at the bar with a glass of scotch.
I tugged off my gloves and tossed them on the bar.
“Hey, boss,” Enzo said and placed the pint glass he’d been drying on the shelf behind him.
“Enzo. Will you give us a minute?”
“Sure thing.” He walked out from behind the bar and down the hallway to the girls’ dressing room and lounge.
“Ciao, Luca.” I slapped him on the shoulder and rounded the end of the bar to pour myself a finger of whiskey. “È bello averti a casa, nipote.”
“Grazie, Marco.”
The high-backed stool next to Luca creaked under my weight. I pulled out two Nicaraguan cigars, and we went through the slow, methodical dance of retrieving our cutters and readying our smokes in the comfortable silence only possible with family.
The peaceful moment eased my worries. I needed him in Italy, but I wanted him in Boston. I might have called him nephew, but for all intents and purposes, Luca was my son, and when he was home, it was like a piece of my best friend was still with me.
Smoky cedar notes settled on my tongue, and I washed them down with a sip of whiskey. “How’s Gina?” I asked.
“Mamma Gina’s fine,” Luca said, and a heartfelt smile softened his mask.
Mamma Gina. He still called her that after all these years. Tony had called her Mamma Gina when Luca was little, as if the nickname could replace the mother he’d lost.
“She made lasagna and bought cannoli from Mike’s.”
“She still spoils you.”
He chuckled. “She does. I’m not complaining.”
The comfortable silence returned while we enjoyed our cigars and drinks, but it didn’t last long.
“That FBI agent was skulking around outside Terme when I stopped by yesterday,” Luca said.
“Agent Johnson.” I let out a tired sigh and closed my eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t engage.”
He snorted. “Non preoccuparti, zio. Didn’t have to. Siobhán came out and read him the riot act. Told him he was impeding business and if he didn’t leave, she’d call his supervisor.” He chuckled and shook his head.
“She’s got moxie, that one. Couldn’t find a better GM if I tried.”
Luca puffed on his cigar and gave me side-eye. I knew they didn’t get along, but when it came to business, they both had enough sense to keep things professional.
“He been coming around a lot, lately?” Luca asked into his drink.
“No more than usual, but I’m not surprised you saw him yesterday.” I blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Vinnie came to see me last week.”
Luca’s head snapped up.
“I know. I had the same reaction. I don’t remember the last time he came to Terme.”
Luca took a long drag off his cigar and swiveled his barstool to face me. “What did he want?”
“He wants to use Terme to expand his Source racket. Provide lodgings and meeting places for higher-end clients. Legitimize a portion of his income by laundering it through DEI. For a cut, of course.”
Luca shifted and cleared his throat, his eagerness unmistakable. He’d always wanted to involve himself with the Valenzanos, follow in his father’s footsteps out of some misguided sense of tribute or legacy. I thought he’d moved on. Apparently not.
“What did you say?” he asked.
I lifted my whiskey. “I told him I wasn’t interested,” I said and took a sip.
He swiveled back to the bar and stared into his drink, disappointment evident in the set of his jaw.
“Might be worth considering.” Luca’s words were muted with hesitation. I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do Roma and Sicilia aren’t doing well. Fucking economy. But the Source racket is steady, and he’s offering you a cut.”
“We’ve been down this road before, Luca,” I said, my tone thick with warning. “I won’t tie myself financially to the Valenzanos. I’ve been running my crew my way for longer than you’ve been alive, and I’m not going to jeopardize our independence now.”
The muscles of his hard, angular jaw twitched. My involvement, or lack thereof, with the Valenzanos had been a recurring issue between us since he’d turned eighteen and decided he wanted to be made.
“It’s not just the money. It’s the alliance. The Irish are getting bolder. Expanding. Taking more business. It’s only a matter of time before they encroach on Italian territory. You want them running books in the North End? Taking business away from Vesuvio?”
Fuck, no. Especially given my suspicion that the Shaughnessys had a hand in the poor performance of my European properties. But I didn’t need Vinnie’s help to put a stop to that.
“How about real estate development? Between you and Vinnie, the Italians have city hall and the unions, but how long will that last with those Irish cops Shaughnessy has on the take?”
“Law enforcement is the exact reason we shouldn’t take this deal. You just finished telling me you saw Agent Johnson outside Terme. You think bringing Source traffic through there is going to make him less interested in what we’re doing? You want to jeopardize the safety of blood demons on top of our rackets?” I shook my head. “Our lives are dangerous enough, Luca. Your father—”
“My father’s been dead for almost forty years, Marco. Paddy Shaughnessy put a bullet through his head. Or have you forgotten?” Hesitation fled Luca’s voice, leaving only bitterness. I chewed the end of my cigar and let him finish. “I’m tired of living in his shadow, and I don’t need you to protect me anymore. All I’m saying is this might be a good move. For the money and the alliance. We should at least consider it.”
When Luca was three or four, Tony made me promise if anything happened to him, I’d make sure Luca had options, that he wouldn’t be forced into the life me and Tony had no choice but to lead. One of the strongest men I’d ever known, the worry and pleading in Tony’s eyes when he’d made me promise had stayed with me every day since Pádraig Shaughnessy ended his immortal life.
Only two things could kill a blood demon—blood starvation and a head shot. Tony had fallen victim to the latter. I didn’t want my adopted son to meet the same fate.
“I’m going to explain this one last time, Luca. One. Last. Time. Tying ourselves financially to the Valenzanos is off the table. Laundering money for something the feds will consider prostitution, regardless of whether or not that’s what it is, is not a good look. Do you want to starve in a federal penitentiary? Do you want to put Gina through that pain? Watch her lose everything?”
“No. Of course not.” The Luca I knew and loved broke through the anger, sincerity clear in his eyes and in the softening of his face. “I want to protect her as much as you, but we can’t let this go. We can’t let them win.”
“You think the solution is making a stand against the Irish? Starting a war?” I shook my head. “I know you hate the Shaughnessys. The Lord knows I’ve tried to help you out of your anger since you were a kid, but you need to let it go. Before it consumes you. Before you end up with a bullet through your head.”
His fury spread, glowing red streaks through the darkness of his eyes.
“Hey.” I clasped his shoulder and squeezed. “Nipote. Come on. Finish your drink. Let’s smoke these cigars and play some pool. Va bene? Take the edge off?” I patted him twice on the cheek.
He closed his eyes, ran a hand down his face, and pulled at his jaw. His lips parted, revealing the tips of his fangs.
“You’re right,” he said and opened his eyes. They’d returned to their normal near-black. “You’re right. I forgot myself for a moment. Just stressed about Roma and Sicilia.”
He gave me one of his fake smiles, the ones he used when dealing with the public or his endless stream of women. He was still pissed. At me, at his father, at the world. But he’d school his emotions and erect his walls and I’d let him, hoping he’d never unleash the inferno of his deep-seated rage.
Chapter Fourteen
Anna
“Siobhán Connelly.”
“Hi, Siobhán. It’s Anna.”
“Hey, girl. What’s up?”
“Mr. DeVita told me you needed help with a charity gala? He asked me to call you.”
It was Thursday, just before lunch, and this was the last loose end I needed to tie up before taking my break.
“Yes! Oh my God, thank you! There’s only a week left until the event, and I have so much to do.”
“What do you need?”
“The planning is done. It’s just last-minute details. I’ll send you a list to review. I’d like to meet and divvy up the work.”
“I can do that, no problem. When do you want to meet?
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Today is a mess. My afternoon is shot. Department meetings. I have a few errands to run after work, but…” She drew out the but, and I sensed mischief. “We could go out tonight. A little late-night planning sesh? What do you think?”
“That sounds amazing. I could use a drink after the past couple days.”
“That good, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
She snorted. “It’s a date. Meet me outside Vesuvio at eight.”
“Vesuvio? As in the nightclub?”
“That’s the only Vesuvio I know.” I could almost see her sticking the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
“People like me don’t go to Vesuvio, Siobhán. I’m not exactly a jet-setting partier. Are you sure that’s where you want to go?”
“What? You don’t like free drinks?”
“What do you mean?”
She laughed. “Vesuvio is Marco’s club.”
I sighed. Of course it was. “I don’t know.”
“Come ooon. It’s different during the week. No DJ. No dancing. Just professionals having drinks after work. You’ll be fine.”
I did need a drink and some girl time after the previous day’s Marco-DeVita-induced hot flash. What the hell. “Okay,” I said, resigned yet doubtful.
“Yes! You’ll love it. Promise.”
I chuckled. “We’ll see.”
“See you at eight,” she said and hung up.
I placed the receiver back on the dock and got up to retrieve my coat just as Mr. DeVita walked out of his office.
“Anna.”
“Mr. DeVita. I was about to go to lunch. Did you need anything before I head out?”
“The escrow’s in place?”
“Yes. I sent you an email with the account number and proof of deposit.”
Turns out, Mr. DeVita did have enough capital in reserves, and his debt-to-income ratio, while high, was well within the stipulations required by the purchase agreement. Although, had I actually been his financial advisor, I still would have recommended against the purchase.
“Excellent. I’m taking the rest of the day off, but I want to know as soon as that waiver comes through. If I don’t answer my cell, I’ll be downstairs in the spa.” He walked across the foyer to his apartment.
“Enjoy your break,” I said and meant it. That man was constantly working. He shot me a quick glance over his shoulder, and I stepped onto the elevator and headed to lunch.
The afternoon flew by with two iterations on the model and assembling input files, and suddenly it was four-thirty. I usually left the office around six, but since Mr. DeVita was gone for the day… I closed all the windows on my desktop, put my water bottle in my bag, and checked my email one last time.
There it was. A message from Doug Heller with the subject “Financial District Waiver Approved.” I picked up my cell and called Mr. DeVita. Straight to voicemail. I texted him, waited five minutes, and called again. Nothing. I was going to have to go down to the spa. I sighed. So much for leaving early.
At the back of the main lobby, behind the front desk and past the elevators, a set of copper-clad doors led to the baths that gave Terme di Boston its name. I climbed down two flights of stairs that opened into a foyer with ivy-covered stone walls and trickling fountains. The air smelled clean but not artificial, a combination of eucalyptus and toasted almonds.
“Good afternoon,” I said to the attendant at the front desk. “I’m Mr. DeVita’s assistant. I have an urgent message for him.”
“Yes. Ms. Barone. Mr. DeVita asked us to reserve the low-steam room for him this afternoon. If he’s not in the main baths, he’s likely there. Go past the full-length pool, but before you enter the hallway to the private men’s and women’s areas, you’ll find the low-steam room on the left.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
I pushed through the second set of copper doors behind the front desk and stepped into the main baths.
An Olympic-sized pool occupied the center of a cavernous chamber surrounded by smaller pools, misters, tiled walkways, and a bar. A man in a speedo stroked lazily through its crystal waters under ivy that had ventured beyond its trellises to conquer the vaulted ceiling. Between the legs of foliage dripping from stone beams, chandeliers cast light across the rippling water, making it dance with reflection.
The attendant standing behind the bar handed a woman in a thong bikini and heeled sandals a glass of sparkling water. She carried her drink to a square plunge pool along the wall. “MINERAL” was carved into the stone in the same Romanesque lettering used on the front entrance. She kicked off her sandals, held her drink aloft, and descended into the bath, slowly sinking until she sat and rested her head against the lip of the pool. Her glass, beaded with condensation, dangled in her fingers above the water.
On the opposite side of the pool, stone benches protruded from the wall like organic growths, one of them occupied by two older men with noticeable paunches and receding hairlines. One of the men reached behind him and turned a copper knob. A gentle mist sprayed the area where they sat and rustled the foliage.
Mr. DeVita was nowhere in sight.
At the far end of the main room, another set of copper doors mirrored the set behind me. Right before the doors and past the smaller baths, “SAUNA” was carved into the stone over a glass door opaque with condensation.
I walked the length of the pool, kicking myself for having never ventured down there before. The peaceful ambiance was soothing, and I wanted to stay and soak in the tranquility. But I was on a mission.
Sure enough, a Reserved placard hung from a suction cup stuck to the glass.
The door opened with a whoosh, and I stepped into the warm, hazy space. The low-steam sauna wasn’t overly cloying with heat and humidity like a regular sauna. The air was thick, and condensation trailed down the tiled walls, but the room was set to a temperature you could tolerate for more than ten minutes, and visibility wasn’t completely obscured by a wall of steam. Dim, orange lights reflected off a plunge pool set in the center of the space, its refreshing waters empty and waiting.
Against the opposite wall, Marco DeVita gripped the edge of a stone bench on either side of his knees. His head rested back on the tile, unmoving, but his dark, hooded eyes followed me like a predator tracking its prey.
The click of my heels ricocheted off the walls, a steady beat over the rapid pounding of my pulse. It quickened the closer I came to the full extent of his dominating presence, so primitive and exposed.
The wave of his hair, damp with humidity, was more pronounced, curls glistening and falling out of their ordered places. He was naked aside from the white towel wrapped around his waist, and sweat followed the curve of his muscled arms to where his hands gripped the edge of the bench. Neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair covered his broad chest. It trailed down an abdomen thick with muscle before disappearing beneath the towel. The tattoo I’d seen on his forearm was on full display, the “track” revealing itself to be scales on the tail end of a snake. The serpent coiled itself around his forearm and bicep, slinking up his arm until it rested its diamond-shaped head on the bulge of his shoulder.
My mouth went dry despite the humidity, and I licked my lips. Sexual energy poured from his hungry eyes like the droplets of moisture sliding down the hard planes of his body. The heat of the sauna and the heat in his eyes combined to form a tidal wave of lust that crashed into me. But I was there for a reason that had nothing to do with the urgency developing between my legs, and I stopped a few feet short of the bench, not daring to venture any closer to temptation.
“You—you wanted me to notify you as soon as the waiver came through.”
He lifted his head off the tile and stood. The towel wrapped around his hips only covered half of his thick thighs and exposed an indecent amount of his lower abs. He prowled toward me, and his muscles rippled under a thin sheen of sweat.
Jesus. I swallowed, trying in vain to slow my breathing as the alpha sex god eyed me like he was ready to feast.
