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.
Outside the window next to 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 mob famiglia can 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.
Friend or stranger, I know if they’re here, they’re part of the Business. The locals know better than to come in here. Occasionally, a stupid tourist stumbles in, drawn by the authenticity and the scent of sourdough and marinara, but the locals have some sense.
A waiter approaches, his smile self-aware and his gaze shifting away from mine before settling on the tray in his hands. He studiously avoids meeting Baccio’s curious gaze, perhaps instinctively aware that to show fear or nervousness would be bad for him.
“Buon giorno, signorina.”
Rubbing a finger tiredly across my brow, I observe the barely discernible tremble in the young man’s hands as he sets down a spread of freshly made bread and an olive oil dip spiced with garlic, rosemary, chives, and thyme.
And so it begins.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Can I get anything else for you, signorina?“ He clasps his hands in front of him—to hide the shake, I’m sure.
“You can tell me how many people know I’m here.” I pick up a hunk of bread and mop it through a smear of olive oil, then hand it across the table to Baccio, who takes it delicately from my fingers. He’s always careful to avoid nipping me with his large, ‘malligator’ teeth. I tear off another hunk for myself, waiting for the waiter’s response.
He startles visibly before collecting himself. “I am not sure I understand the question, signorina.”
I chew without answering immediately, my gaze steady on him, then grab my napkin from my lap and wipe my mouth with delicate dabs. “Obviously, you’re new to the game, and you one thousand percent need to get better at it. Fast. I watched as you dropped a note at that table”—I indicate with a pointed glance—“and exchanged wordless communication with that one”another tilt of my chin—”before directing your attention to me in a very obvious manner. Discretion, young man.”
His cheeks redden. “I—“
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “You don’t live at Bastoni e Pietre, after all. You don’t want to find yourself in the position of having someone sent to your home, do you…” I squint to read his name tag, my spectacles sitting on the table beside me. My near vision is a weakness I despise. “Daniel.”
“My apologies, signorina.“ The young man bows jerkily, his eyes rolling in his skull like those of a panicked horse.
I shrug and pull off another hunk of bread before waving him away. I’m not really upset, but I could spot the fool a mile away and recognized that he was about to drown himself in the deep end of the pool. Whether it was he or another employee talking, I had no doubt word had gone out: after five years in Californian exile, Carina Scarpetta was back.
For what purpose remained to be seen.
I’ve just popped the bite of bread into my mouth when my attention is caught by the opening of the door opposite me and the group of five men who walk through its entry. Tension grips me, and across from me, Baccio shifts and whines low in his throat. I relax each muscle deliberately. “I’m fine, baby.”
Four of the men are unknown to me—simple foot soldiers, by their appearance. It’s the man they flank who makes me grip my table knife in a tight fist, a man I had hoped to not see during my visit.
Luca Marzano.
Slinking further into the recesses of the booth until my back is against the wall, I watch him from the corner of my eye.
Luca is a man born, bred, and polished for his role as heir to the Marzano famiglia. He is the highest-ranking person in the room, yet he does the due diligence of pausing at various tables to pay his respects. Every person he greets rises to return the honor, bowing and scraping as they shake his hand, smiling like they are one of the chosen few.
My lip curls. If only they knew how greatly Luca despises them. How he hated everything about this life when we were kids.
As he moves around the room, glad-handing everyone, my eyes follow him. I keep my expression impassive, but inwardly, the butterflies his presence always set to dancing wake up and begin a jitterbug in my stomach. Everything that made him so tempting once upon a time is still there, mostly unchanged since I last saw him. Brownish-blond hair in a dark, burnished hue, refined features, a hint of something wicked in his green eyes.