Page 67 of Dark Breaker

“Neither am I,” he says. “But there is something I’m curious about… I heard the Morettis grew up on the streets. Did you ever know your parents?”

I smile sadly. “I did. But I only remember snippets here and there. They died in a boating accident when I was very young. When they were gone, there was no one who would take us in. Or at least, no one came forward. My guess is my parents were ostracized from their respective families. Probably for marrying each other.”

Fabio nods slowly. It wasn’t uncommon for mafia families to disown a son or a daughter, especially for the sin of loving the “wrong” partner. Usually the banished child left the city or even country of their birthplace and never returned.

“How did you survive?” he asks.

“The usual way,” I tell him. “When we couldn’t pay our rent we were kicked out of our apartment and resorted to pickpocketing to stay alive. I was never really good at it, so mostly begged on popular street corners, and stole the occasional apple or orange from the outdoor markets. Even begging wasn’t easy, because I’d have to move every hour or so to avoid pissing off whatever group operated in that particular area. Sometimes I’d be too slow and they’d confiscate all my earnings.”

I pause. “I remember returning home in tears one time, having lost a full day’s worth of earnings. Luciano made me take him with me the next day to the same street corner, and when an older kid came by to rob us, Luciano broke his nose and took his money instead. Luciano told him it wasourstreet corner now.

“Realizing we’d probably just started a turf war, we returned the next day with all of our brothers. The family members of Mr. Broken Nose also showed up, but decided it wasn’t worth it to fight over that particular street corner, I’m guessing because it wasn’t really their highest grossing area. So they left. That’s how we won our first street corner. My brothers used similar intimidation tactics to claim ownership over prime pickpocketing areas and we sort of grew from there.”

“Luciano.” Fabio taps his chin. “He’s the one I shot.”

“Yes,” I tell him.

I see a flash of guilt in his eyes. “I never apologized for that, did I? I’m sorry for shooting your brother. Sometimes I lose my cool and bad things happen.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” I’m a bit surprised when I see the hurt on his face, and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. He was trying to be sincere and I shot him down. “Sorry. I can be a bit… sarcastic, as you know. Anyway, Luciano is doing well. His limp is almost gone now, and he’s finally able to start hitting the gym again. So, apology accepted.”

The waiter arrives with the wine and pours Fabio a small sample.

“Give her some, too,” he orders the waiter.

The man seems about to contest him, but then bows his head and pours me a thimbleful.

I take a sip. The taste is bitter, acrid.

“How do you find it,signora?” the waiter asks.

“It’s wonderful,” I lie.

“Yes!” the waiter says excitedly. “Can you taste the deep red currants and the robust tannins? With undercurrents of mocha and roasted hazelnut in just the right proportions?” He pinches the fingers and thumb of one hand together and gives them a chef’s kiss, tossing his hand dramatically away from his lips. “Magnifico!”

Fabio tries his wine sample and immediately wrinkles up his nose. “Tastes like shit.”

I giggle and admit: “Yeah, it really does.”

The waiter stiffens. “My apologies. Would you like to order something else?”

Fabio picks out a different wine from the list. “Let’s try this one.”

“Excellent choice.”

When he’s gone I mimic the waiter’s snobbish tone. “Can you taste the sweet, fragrant tobacco, mixed in with charred earthworms and pencil shavings? That savory undercurrent of mashed liver and squashed beetles completes the flavor profile, giving just the right taste.” I perform a chef’s kiss. “Magnifico!”

Fabio chuckles. “It’s a bit of a pretentious place, isn’t it?”

“Just a little.” I study him a moment. “So. Before we were so rudely interrupted, I told you about my childhood. How about you now? How did you get started in the ‘business.’ I admit I don’t really know all that much about the D’Alimontes.”

“My family has been doing this for over fifty years,” he explains. “We started out in the construction business and slowly expanded into a little bit of everything. After my father took over, we did very well up until recently, when we started to get sloppy with our hires. My father ended up employing several federal agents, and they arrested him for smuggling drugs into Palermo via our port. These days we don’t bother transporting our own drugs, and just broker deals with other families for access instead.”

“What happened to your mother?” I ask.

“Died when I was young,” he tells me. “Originally, my father told me she died of natural causes. Never believed it, though. Who dies of natural causes at that age? It was only years later he revealed she died in a drive-by shooting by a rival family.”

I reach out, give his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”