When Salvatore Sr had seen Polpetto had something in the will, he had nearly grown a horn.
So, on top of everything else going on, Don Piero’s will was another thing to handle.
Alessandro was ready to go homicidal over it.
“Even in death, he is a difficult man,” Alessandro grumbled. “When I die, you can have all my shit.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
He made a noncommittal noise.
“You would think everything would go to Nicoletta. She is his wife.”
“He was very smart about the wording,” Alessandro said. “And since Nicoletta is, technically, dead, arguing her place in the will is going to be another headache.”
I cupped the back of his head, weaving my fingers through his hair, and smiled at him. “Speaking of Nicoletta, what do you think of Ophelia?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you asking as her employer or as my wife?”
“Like you could do any better,” I reminded him. “I’m asking because Nero’s taking an interest in her.”
“Ah, you noticed that, did you,” Alessandro muttered. “It’s enough to make me feel sorry for the poor girl.”
“Tell Nero to back off.” My husband looked like he was going to laugh at the idea of telling Nero to do something. “He listens to you. I will not go through the process of hiring another nurse, Alessandro. Ophelia is the only one I like—and who is in enough dire straits that she needs this job. Where else am I going to find a desperate nurse?”
He bowed his head. “As you wish. However, I must warn you, once Nero puts his mind to something, very little can stop him. That’s what makes him such a great killer.”
I stroked my son’s soft hair. He blinked sleepily at me, content just listening to our voices. All I could think to say was, “Poor Ophelia.”
Alessandro caught my hand, holding it tightly. “I am serious about you going and getting some sleep,” he told me.
I sighed, unable to put up a fight any longer. A nap, it would be.
As I turned to leave, Alessandro called out.
“You know I won’t let anything happen to you or Dante, don’t you, Sophia?” he asked.
I looked over my shoulder at him. My beautiful husband who had forsaken God and Heaven in his quest for power, who would walk through Hell in order to protect his family.
“I know,” I murmured. “I know.”
I didn’t realize it was the was the last day of the month until Beatrice kindly reminded me.
I was leaving another Historical Society meeting—my first after Dante’s birth—where, instead of discussing landmarks, everyone had been incredibly interested in photos of my son. I, of course, was always delighted to show off my baby, and I’d had a great time.
As I went to leave, I called Beatrice for an update on her pregnancy. She wasn’t due until the beginning of next year, but it was so nice having someone to talk babies with. Whenever she moaned about a pregnancy symptom, I could coo in sympathy because I understood.
“Pietro’s been lovely,” she said as I wrapped my scarf around my neck.
“Pietro’s always lovely.”
Beatrice laughed softly on the other end of the phone. “He has been very...protective lately. Is something going on?”
Curiosity about the Outfit from Beatrice was a rare thing. Usually, she liked to go on with her life, not knowing the gritty details behind the money she used and the people she called family. It wasn’t because —of ignorance, I didn’t think. Beatrice was just aware of what she could and couldn’t handle—and the mafia had always been something she couldn’t deal with.
“Has Pietro said anything?” I asked.
“No.” But clearly, he was doing something that was making Beatrice worry.
“Everyone is on edge after the death of Don Piero,” I told her. “I imagine Pietro’s just worried about who is going to be his next capo dei capi.”
She made a noise of understanding but didn’t ask anything more.
“I’m going to miss Elena,” she said suddenly. “It is heartbreaking that we couldn’t go to the wedding.”
When I had asked Alessandro if we could go to the Falcone territory to see Elena get married, he gave me a glare so hard it looked like his face was going to break. I imagine Pietro had a similar reaction to Beatrice’s request.
“Me too,” I murmured. “I made her swear to call me as soon as she could.”
“It’s not the same as being there,” Beatrice said. Then sighed. “But what can you do? Hopefully, he is kind to her. I’m sure she will make sure he treats her well.”
“Alessandro said Thaddeo is a good man,” I assured her, trying to help ease some of her anxieties. “I’m sure he will be good to Elena.”
That did make Beatrice feel better and she expressed her excitement over everyone in our little trio being wed.
I was listening to her when I spotted a familiar, handsome gray head striding toward me. Pigeons fluttered furiously as the mayor disturbed them, the effect almost comical.
“Fucking birds!” he snapped, then straightened his tie and continued toward me.
“Beatrice, I’m going to have to go. I will call you later?” I hung up, eyeing the approaching mayor. In the sunlight, paired with his Botox and waxy smile, he looked like he could melt.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Oscuro walking toward us, his expression dark.
“Can I help you, sir?” I asked, letting him know that I had seen him upset the pigeons and thought it was hilarious.
Ericson smoothed down his gray hair, giving me a foul look. “I did not expect to see you here, Mrs Rocchetti,” he said. “Did we have a meeting that I missed?”
Oscuro reached us, but I held up a hand, signaling him to stay back until I needed him. “I was meeting with the Historical Society, so no. No forgotten engagement on your part.”
“Historical Society? How lucky. Is Salisbury still here?”
Ericson knew very well that Salisbury had not shown up to a Historical Society meeting since his very public loss. According to his wife, the former mayor was still cooped up in his house, nursing his bruised ego. When I had told my husband this, he had rolled his eyes and told me all politicians were fucking useless babies.
I was beginning to agree.
“Salisbury is on holiday with his wife. The Bahamas, according to his last postcard,” I lied. Who was going to dispute it? Salisbury wasn’t leaving his house. “Did you not get a postcard?”
Ericson did not approve of my attempt at humor. “Can I just give you my condolences again?” he asked, his tone sleazy. “Your brother-in-law tells me the family is taking it very hard.” Did he, now?
“Chicago is taking it hard,” I told him. “Don Piero was a—what was it you said? A staple of our community.”
“It will be very difficult to replace him,” he said. “But not impossible.”
I smiled at the mayor. His tone implied that he thought he might be a better fit for Chicago. I bet his FBI contacts had fed that narrative into his brain.
Did Ericson really think he would be able to replace Don Piero? Did the FBI truly think that?