Inferno (Blood for Blood #2) Page 7

  He stood up and came towards me. He wore his injury well, but it changed the way he carried himself, dipping him slightly to one side. I could smell his aftershave and see the small lines underneath his eyes. Did he know how well I knew his face now? It was burnt into my brain from that night. I knew the length and thickness of his lashes. I knew the ones near the corner of his eye were pale, while the rest were jet black. I knew the line of his cheekbone, and where it curved above his jaw. I knew too much.

  Luca brought his fingers to his lips, pulling my attention to the small scar above them. ‘You’re telling me you came all the way to Graceland Cemetery to give me back my knife?’ He was trying to find the lie in my words.

  ‘It’s an important knife.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t really have it.’

  He plucked the knife from my hand and rolled it over. He looked up, frowning. ‘There’s blood on this.’

  ‘Is there?’ I leant closer until I was almost nose-to-chest with him. I couldn’t see any blood.

  ‘Here.’ He pressed his fingernail against the base and I stared until a tiny brown spot came into focus. It was just inside the L in the inscription.

  I pulled back, grimacing. ‘I thought I cleaned it all.’

  When I looked at him again, his face had clouded over. I stepped back, suddenly conscious of how close we had been standing.

  ‘What did you do with it, Sophie? Did you hurt someone?’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a tad hypocritical considering you’re an assassin?’

  ‘That’s different. I’m trained. You’re … you.’

  I threw him a withering look. ‘I know you think that’s some sort of insult, but I’m choosing to take it as a compliment.’

  ‘Take it as you like.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Who did you stab?’

  ‘Fine,’ I relented. ‘If you must know, I may or may not have accidentally stabbed myself when I was sleeping.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, like the answer to some great riddle had been revealed to him. His face relaxed and he resumed blinking. ‘That makes sense.’ He closed the blade and slid it into his pocket. ‘No more switchblade for you.’

  ‘I didn’t want it anyway,’ I told him, my tone petulant. ‘I’m clearing out my life of everything that’s been harmful to me.’

  ‘So that’s why you came,’ he said, circling around me and turning to look at the walls again. ‘To clear out the assassins once and for all. Symbolically.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said to the back of his head. ‘I’ll have you know it’s a form of therapeutic healing.’ His hair had grown since I’d seen him last. It was still shaggy, but stray black strands swept across his neck now. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and from the back I could see a glimpse of a silver chain disappearing beneath it. I wondered what it was. I wondered why I cared.

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘And here I was thinking you wanted to see me again.’

  My body erupted in violent incredulity. ‘What? Why would I want to see you again? We’re not even friends. Honestly, Luca, you’re so full of yourself.’

  He turned around on the heel of his boot, amusement colouring his voice. ‘I’m joking, Sophie. Don’t have a coronary.’

  ‘You have a terrible sense of humour.’

  ‘Maybe it’s too complex for you.’

  ‘Don’t make me regret saving your life,’ I teased, wiping the smirk off his face and shining a light on that Big Thing we had been so expertly avoiding.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, feigning a sudden memory flash. ‘That.’ He wound his fingers together. ‘I’m not sure I ever thanked you.’

  I raised my eyebrows, expectant.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, acting shockingly earnest, before flipping his accent into a rolling Italian lilt, and adding, ‘Grazie, sinceramente.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I waved my hand around in the air. ‘I got your flowers.’

  Luca’s face screwed up. ‘What? I didn’t send you flowers.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ I deadpanned him. ‘You didn’t send me anything.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see what you did there. Maybe I’ll reconsider.’

  ‘I imagine it will be a cold day in hell before Luca Falcone gives anyone a bouquet of flowers.’

  The corner of his lips twitched. ‘It’s not really the Falcone style.’

  ‘I guess there’s nothing so sweet as honey,’ I said, only dregs of joviality left in my voice now.

  That really did shut him up. He turned around and let his attention settle on the wall again. He didn’t gesture for me to leave, and even though I should have, I didn’t. I lingered, without really knowing why I wanted to hang out in a dusky tomb with a bunch of dead murderers and someone who had once made my skin burn with hatred. Someone I used to fear. I guess I didn’t feel any of that any more. When I pressed my hands against his body in the warehouse and felt his blood, warm and sticky, on my fingers, he became something else to me … human, breakable.

  ‘So … nice place you got here …’ I came to stand beside him. We faced the wall and I read the plaque directly in front of us.

  GIANLUCA FALCONE

  DECEMBER 7TH, 1923 – MARCH 20TH, 1995

  CXIII

  ‘Your namesake,’ I said.

  ‘My grandfather.’

  ‘He died on the day you were born?’

  He turned to look at me. ‘Creepy much?’

  ‘It’s written on your knife!’

  ‘OK, stalker. Relax.’

  ‘You are so incredibly annoying.’

  He shrugged. ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘You should come off that pedestal every now and then.’

  He grimaced. ‘But I like my pedestal. I can see everything from up here.’

  ‘I bet the view’s even nicer from your ivory tower.’

  ‘It is,’ he said, solemnly. ‘I’d invite you up some time but it’s only for really intelligent people who have a great sense of humour.’

  ‘Then you must be squatting.’ I turned back to the plaque, renewed curiosity flickering in my mind. ‘Did your grandfather get to see you?’ I asked. ‘Before he died that day?’

  ‘Yes. Valentino and I were born early in the morning.’ Luca’s voice changed, losing the tinge of arrogance that made it haughty. His family was not a laughing matter. ‘My grandfather held me in his arms for an hour. He wasn’t so interested in Valentino. I don’t know if it was because of his defect or because I was the less screechy of the two of us, but my grandfather convinced my parents that he and I were kindred spirits. He said he felt it. I’m not so sure. How kindred can you feel with a scrunched-up baby who can’t even see properly? Anyway, after he gave me back to my mother, he walked right out of the hospital and dropped dead on the street.’

  ‘Oh,’ I gasped, feeling my face crumple. That took a dark turn. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

  Luca’s smile was rueful. ‘Sophie Gracewell. Naïve as ever. They hit him twice; once in the head, once in the heart. Twin bullets, to represent Valentino and me.’

  I clutched at my stomach. Despite my best efforts to remain composed, I was starting to feel a little sick. I focused on the letters in front of me, following their elaborate curves. ‘Who shot him?’

  I could feel Luca watching me. ‘The Marinos.’ In his mouth, the name Marino sounded like a curse word. Nic had spoken about them in that same tone when he had asked me about Jack in the garden. ‘We call them the Black Hand. You could say we have a … colourful history with them.’ He stopped, his head dipping like he was staring at something on the ground, and quietly, emotionlessly, he added, ‘It had been a long time coming.’

  ‘What exactly does colourful mean?’

  Luca shrugged, still staring at that same spot. ‘That we’re always killing each other.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, feeling horrified and doing my best to hide it. ‘Of course …’

  ‘We were in a truce at the time … or at least we were supposed to be,
but they were still harbouring resentment for something that happened several years before that. And with the twin thing, I suppose the symbolism was too great to pass up.’

  ‘The twin thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luca, looking up again, but not at me. His gaze roved around the room, tripping over his ancestors’ tombs. ‘In the eighties, during the second blood war between our families, my grandfather ordered the killing of Don Vincenzo Marino and his family. It was a drastic move, but he thought that would cripple the Marino dynasty and end the bloodshed once and for all. The Falcones got Vincenzo and his wife, but their sons weren’t there. They were twins. No one knows where they went – seems like they just disappeared into thin air. After that, Vincenzo’s younger brother, Cesare, took over, but he was an incompetent boss. The family didn’t respect him the way they respected Vincenzo. Just like my grandfather had planned, the Marinos were weakened without strong leadership, and Cesare agreed to a truce.’ He heaved a sigh. It was heavy and filled with regret, as though he had been there to witness it all.

  ‘But the bloodshed didn’t end, did it?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘The Marinos endured the terms, at first, but they obviously didn’t swallow them – maybe the twins’ survival gave them courage, or maybe it was my mother’s sister, Donata, who changed things. She married Cesare Marino when she was barely twenty years old. He was almost twice her age, but she didn’t care. Donata was hungry for money, for the power she couldn’t find in her own family.’ His expression soured as his mind turned to his aunt. ‘The Genoveses were on the way out, and I guess you could say the Marinos had an opening.’

  ‘And she took it,’ I supplied. I considered the idea of marrying some random forty-year-old mob boss for money and power, and it made my skin crawl. What twisted brand of ambition would make someone want to do that? I remembered Luca’s mother’s words to me in my hospital room: The Genovese women are survivors; we have the blood of Sicily in our veins, entire families who work beneath us.

  Luca nodded. ‘Donata became more of a boss than her husband. Within a couple of years, she was running the whole operation. The day Valentino and I were born, Donata sent her Marino soldati after my parents, out of some sick, delayed retribution.’ At my look of confusion, he clarified, ‘Soldiers.’

  ‘Soldiers?’ I repeated in a voice much higher than normal. In my head I pictured an army of mafiosi marching towards a hospital, and bringing death with them. I swallowed hard. ‘But why?’

  ‘Donata wanted to orphan Valentino and me, the same way the Falcones orphaned the Marino twins. She wanted to kill her own sister.’

  ‘That’s ruthless,’ I said. ‘I mean, they’re sisters.’

  Something unreadable flitted across Luca’s face. ‘They’re Genovese,’ he resolved, as though that would explain everything. It didn’t, but I stayed silent and after a moment, he picked up the thread of conversation again. ‘My grandfather got a tip-off that the Marinos were going to move against us, so he met them on the streets outside the hospital that day and they took him instead.’

  ‘God,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Luca. ‘He paid the ultimate price in the end.’

  ‘For killing the Marino boss and his wife?’ I thought about the wife. Had she been someone like me, ushered into the family by her feelings and naïvety, or was she raised the way Nic’s mother and her sister were? Did she marry Vincenzo Marino willingly, knowing what might one day happen to them?

  ‘For ordering it,’ Luca clarified. ‘The hit on Vincenzo Marino and his wife was Felice’s. His first. Well, first and second.’ A bitter smile twisted on his lips. ‘If you ever want to piss Felice off, mention the missing Marino twins and he’ll go so red you won’t recognize him. The ones that got away,’ Luca said with mock wistfulness. ‘Only Felice would lament the failure to kill a couple of kids.’

  ‘He ruined their lives,’ I said, bitterness overtaking me at the thought of Felice’s stupid face. His leering grin. His murderous eyes. ‘Wasn’t that enough?’

  Luca shook his head. ‘There’s a long history between our families, Sophie. It doesn’t come down to a couple of murders, not of their boss, not of my grandfather. We’ve been warring with the Marinos since Sicily. It started with land, and land became profit and drugs and arms, and territories, and revenge. There have been losses on both sides.’

  ‘I don’t see how that excuses anything.’

  Luca’s voice hardened. ‘I never said it did.’

  ‘Nic told me once that you never go after members of the Mafia culture, no matter what they’ve done.’

  Luca’s laugh was mirthless. ‘Nicoli says a lot of things. That doesn’t make them true.’

  ‘So he lied.’ I tried to keep the surprise from my voice. I know Nic was more than capable of being dishonest, but when he had sat beside me in his sitting room, pouring out the secrets of his lineage, he had seemed so sincere.

  Luca’s forehead creased. ‘I think it’s less about him lying to you and more about him lying to himself. The Marinos have always been different from the other families. We’ve never shared a history of respect with them.’

  ‘Are you still at war … in a “blood war”?’ I amended, wondering at the sick turn in my stomach, at the way my panic flared at the thought. How strong were the Marinos now? How close were they to the Falcones? Just how bloody was a blood war?

  ‘No. Not for a while now.’ Luca’s face was pale and drawn; he looked tired of standing, tired of talking. He sat down, tucking his boots under the bench and leaning forward. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, thinking. I was struck by the memory of Valentino – how alike they were in that moment, one in my memory, the other beside me. I stayed standing, curious now that I was steeped in their history. I circled the room, scanning names I couldn’t pronounce and Roman numerals that made no sense.

  ‘That’s good, I suppose, that there’s peace,’ I said.

  I couldn’t see Luca’s face, but the back of his head jerked, and he snorted. ‘A truce is only as good as its sincerity. Once my mother’s sister has rebuilt her wealth and the Marino membership, she’ll come out of the woodwork.’

  ‘Maybe she won’t. Maybe she wants peace too. That’s what most people want.’ Well, most sane people.

  ‘Peace or not, there’s an old Falcone saying: “Never turn your back on a Marino”.’

  ‘Ah, a family saying,’ I said. ‘Kind of like “A Lannister always pays his debts”.’

  He swivelled around, re-planting his feet on the ground closest to me. He cocked his head. ‘What?’

  I raised my hand to him. ‘Don’t act like you’ve never seen Game of Thrones, Luca. Nobody likes a liar.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Trust you to lower the seriousness of the conversation.’

  ‘I was contributing,’ I countered. ‘It’s not like I have a family motto to offer.’

  ‘What a shame,’ he said drily.

  ‘If I did, it would probably be something like “When all else fails, play dead”.’

  ‘That’s idiotic.’

  ‘Tell that to possums. They know what they’re at.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know I don’t have to worry about you when you’re out there on your own.’ I could almost taste the sarcasm in the air.

  My laughter surprised me. It hung in echoes around us, making the room seem bigger and colder.

  Luca’s eyes grew in surprise, two sapphires sparkling in the dimness. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Just the thought of you worrying about me. Or, well, anything, really.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘How low your opinion of me is.’

  I circled the bench, zeroing in on his grandfather’s inscription. I could sense him turning with me, following my movements. How long had we been in here by now? And why was I so eager to traverse the walls of history in his company?

  ‘They were hoping I would be just like him,’ he offered into the silence. I pressed my lips together, surprised at his w
illingness to surrender information to me, to want to talk to me about something real, something important. ‘Gianluca Falcone was the capo di tutti i capi, the boss of all bosses. My grandfather had marked me that day in the hospital, before he died.’

  ‘Do you want to be like him?’ I asked, turning to study him.

  A subtle tilt of the chin, and then, quietly, he said, ‘Isn’t the answer obvious?’

  ‘He sacrificed himself so that you would have parents to raise you.’

  ‘One right doesn’t remedy a thousand wrongs.’

  ‘You should write a book of quotes.’

  He wasn’t smiling. I supposed it was obvious then. Glaringly obvious, if you knew where to look – Luca had abstained from the role handed down to him by his father, the role they all wanted him to undertake. He had given it away, but not entirely. He was still the underboss. Conflicted, dreaming, but ultimately trapped. What was there to smile about?

  ‘What do all the numbers mean?’ I read his grandfather’s Roman numeral aloud. ‘One hundred and thirteen? Is it some kind of ranking system?’

  Luca stood up, the earlier exhaustion fading from his face. ‘You can read Roman numerals?’

  ‘I’m pretty smart, I’ll have you know,’ I said. ‘Not a nerd, like you. But smart, in the ways that matter.’

  He traced the number with his forefinger. ‘This is my grandfather’s kill count.’

  The room seemed to darken all of a sudden. I stepped backwards and stumbled against the bench. One hundred and thirteen people. One hundred and thirteen funerals. One hundred and thirteen grieving families. So that was what it meant to be the boss of all bosses. Suddenly Luca’s words took on a whole new weight. He was Gianluca II, his grandfather’s prodigy; the butcher’s legacy. ‘And your family want you to be just like him?’

  ‘Yes, they do.’ An emotionless answer.

  ‘And, just how like him are you already?’

  Luca glanced sidelong at me, his lips twisting. ‘You really think I’m going to answer that?’

  I moved away from him, to another, sparser wall, where there were just two plaques and I didn’t have to think about Luca’s Roman numeral. Or Nic’s. The sign on the right was Felice’s, his death-date yet to be marked. The sign on the left simply read: