Page 5 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 4

NERO

The next day does not start promisingly. The knock at the door, right at noon, is from Jack rather than Sandro, wearing his signature fedora. “Hi,” he says with a tip of his ridiculous hat. “Came to collect you for lunch.”

“You are joining us?” I ask with my usual wide smile. “How wonderful.”

How infuriating. Another chaperone. Am I never to be allowed a moment alone with Sandro Castellani? But I tamp down my frustration and wax lyrical on the short walk up to the main house about how wonderful the grounds are. “The staff do such a magnificent job. So many trees to care for.” I can’t resist glancing back over my shoulder to the trees on the rise, where a certain little gardener might be working even now.

“Bit grand for my taste,” is all Jack says. Of course he would say that. I’ve seen the car he drives. La Contessa would never allow such shabbiness among her people. Why does her son? Has he changed so much since our school days, when he understood the power of presentation?

His mother taught us both that appearance is the first weapon in any arsenal, that true power dresses itself in beauty, uses luxury as armor. Has Sandro forgotten those lessons we learned together in Rome’s finest restaurants? Has America stripped away his appreciation for the finer things, just as it’s stripped away his Italian? He only ever speaks in English now.

I only hope today will allow me some time alone with him. I believe, though I cannot prove, that Sandro has sent his closest advisors to test me, to ensure that I can be trusted out in the field. The jobs I’ve done so far for the Castellanis are things any street rat could do. I should know—they’re where I started out, before La Contessa polished away my rough edges to her satisfaction, with the finest tutors money could buy.

For a few weeks, I wondered if Sandro was insulting me with these jobs. But then came the parade of insiders, all wanting to spend some time with me, each one weighing me up with careful eyes.

Max Pedretti was the first, asking me to sit in Redwood’s security room for one dull, interminable night. The room hummed with technology, screens showing every angle of the estate—except, I noted, Julian’s new residence and the redwood grove. Pedretti’s not a man of many words, and he watched me all night rather than the cameras, no signs of tiring as the screens cast their blue glow over his stony face.

“You’re seeing an Esposito, yes?” I asked halfway through the night, when I had to have diversion or die.

“Yep.”

“Sandro allowed it?”

“He’s a good man.”

A good man. I laughed at that, though Pedretti did not, his face hardening like cement. I think it might have been a strike against me.

Raffi DeLuca does not like me, either, but only because I flirt now and then with his man. These Americans, they have no sense of fun. Just because I flirt with the butler does not mean I imagine him servicing me. Too innocent, that Darian, for my tastes, and somehow also too sneaky beneath his perfect poise. He’d never stand up to me like Gabriel, with a delicious fire in his eyes.

Leo Bernardi, the one they call the Lion, came around one morning last week when I was on my way to the pool. “Julian’s busy,” he’d said. “Thought you could come with me on my run today. See what PacSyn are up to.”

Ah , I thought. Today I am to be thrown into the arena with the Lion . “At the Port?”

“No. Downtown.”

So I still wasn’t allowed anywhere near an area of action for the Castellanis, the Port of Los Angeles. It was an uneventful day, but I enjoyed being away from Redwood Manor’s stifling perfection, the constant reminder of my focus. The Lion asked me several questions that seemed designed to get me to open up. I spun him a few tales, told him how terrible the situation back home was…

All he did was grunt.

And then he took me to have a drink in the afternoon at the most appalling deviant bar. It was the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in this plastic city. “Where on earth did you find this place?” I marveled, breathing in the old familiar scents of sin and possibility. “It’s fantastic.”

He watched me carefully when he replied, “I met Julian here.”

“I can see why he likes it,” was all I said.

I have never been approached by Julian Castellani, but that makes sense. Sandro always hated that crazy little half-brother of his—clearly still does, since Julian has been relegated from the house to a newly-built property down by the redwoods. Sandro would have no interest in Julian’s opinion of me. As far as I know, Leo Bernardi is tasked with keeping the younger Castellani in line.

As for Jack, he’s spent the most time with me—and asked the most subtle questions. Tricky to navigate. So despite my disappointment at his presence today, I think this might finally be it . I have been poked and prodded, tested by each member of Sandro’s inner circle—or at least, the ones he relies upon—but Jack’s approval means the most.

Perhaps I will finally be allowed to use my considerable talents in this city. Prove myself. Climb to the heady heights of this inner circle that Sandro guards so tightly.

Lunch is held out on the patio, and Sandro is late, of course. It is not Darian who serves us, but a woman with a sad face and red eyes, and utterly lacking the butler’s polish. “Elise—is everything alright?” Jack asks, once she’s poured out our water and wine.

She gives him a startled look. “Oh, of course, sir.”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

“No, sir. Just had a late night.”

But Jack watches her as she goes. “Her niece is sick,” he tells me in a low voice when she’s gone. “Just a kid. Sandro wanted to help, but Elise refused. Said her sister wouldn’t go for it.”

“Why not?” I ask, not because I’m interested, but because I think this might be another test. I trace patterns in the condensation on my crystal water glass, then run my cold, wet fingers across my brow. The sun here is as hot as back home, but somehow more merciless at its zenith, as it is now.

A rueful look flashes through Jack’s gray eyes. “Scruples,” is all he says. But I understand his meaning.

“Pity to let a child suffer for no reason.”

Jack looks as though he’s weighing my words, but we’re interrupted by the Don—at last. Jack and I both stand as Sandro comes out to the patio, spreading his arms with a smile as he sees us both. “What a wonderful thing to have my closest friends with me,” he says, embracing us both with Italian flair. Sandro has blunted his European manners since I last knew him, but they’re on full display now. I see Jack’s slight hesitation as he allows himself to be kissed on either cheek.

His manner is not the only thing about Sandro that has changed. I was prepared for it—had heard about the scar, and when I first saw him, I did an excellent job at hiding any reaction at all. But that scar of his, even white and puckered, is very prominent—even more so out in the unforgiving Californian sunshine. It runs his whole face, temple to mouth. He was lucky not to lose an eye.

I wonder if he tried corrective surgery. He lives in the ideal place for it, after all. The best cosmetic surgeons in the world ply their trade here in LA.

“Old friends are the best friends,” I say in Italian.

“English, please,” Sandro says good-humoredly. “We don’t want Jack to feel left out.”

I turn to Jacopo and paint on my best expression of sincerity. “But of course not. You must forgive me, my friend. Sandro and I grew up in Italy together, you see, so I forget where I am sometimes.”

Jack just gives a slight smile. “No problem. I can cobble together the meaning well enough. Just can’t speak much myself.”

That is good information to have. I settle back and let Jack and Sandro guide the conversation over a patio luncheon that screams new money from first to last. French cuisine instead of proper Italian, crystal that’s American-made. Even the garden view, though beautiful, lacks the significance of history that old European estates carry in their stones. Only the redwoods have that gravitas, which is probably why the estate is named after them, in an attempt to lend weight.

And perhaps that’s why I hate those trees up on the rise so much. They’re another falsehood, reminding me of what this place is not. I don’t understand why Sandro is so taken with his little fiefdom. He could rule all of Europe after his mother, but he consistently refuses.

The first half of lunch passes without any business discussion at all. But once Elise is dismissed and the chef disappears from the kitchen windows, the atmosphere changes.

“How are you enjoying LA?” Sandro asks me, his knife sliding through the perfectly cooked fish.

I think about the knife that sliced into him, opening his face to the bone.

“Delightful. Los Angeles is a fascinating city.”

“That’s not what you said when we were children.”

I wince internally. When we were children, one of my jobs was to persuade him to live in Italy full time, and so every word out of my mouth about America and its cities was a criticism. “We live and learn, eh?” I say with a laugh. “I’m happy to admit that I’m wrong. And living on this wonderful estate like you do, of course—it’s a paradise.” My gesture encompasses the manicured hedges, the lawns, even those distant trees.

Sandro’s smile is speculative. “But I don’t live here,” he reminds me gently. “Redwood is really Julian’s haunt.”

I don’t know where Sandro’s private residence is. But I don’t raise that. “And yet he lives down in the Retreat?”

“He enjoys being closer to the redwoods. And he wanted to make his own mark on the grounds.” That tells me nothing. But I wait, and Sandro goes on. “How have you enjoyed your time with the Family so far?”

I toy with my water goblet again, letting the silence stretch. “May I be honest?”

“That would be preferred,” Jack says.

I don’t like the dryness of his tone, but I look at Sandro when I reply. “I fear I’m being wasted, old friend. You know me. You know my skills. These simple pick ups and drop offs I’ve been tasked with…” I shrug.

“You think the work is beneath you.” It’s not a question, and Sandro keeps eating as we talk, as though this conversation is inconsequential. That alone tells me how important it really is.

“Of course it’s beneath me,” I say easily, “and we both know that—but I’m happy to prove myself, to show you all that I can follow orders, no matter how dull.”

Sandro’s eyes flick to Jack, and if I’m not mistaken, I see the hitman give a very small nod. “I’m sorry you’ve been bored,” Sandro goes on. You have kept yourself amused by the pool, I believe.”

“It’s pleasant to lie out in the sun. And it reminds me of home, I must admit.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have as much time for sunbathing from now on.”

I lean forward. “And why is that?”

“Some of my men will be leaving me soon. Al Montanari, for example. He’s asked me to release him from his vows, and I’m inclined to do so sooner rather than later.”

Montanari—the old Enforcer, the one who has been shown up consistently by Leo Bernardi. Yes, he’s long past his prime. “You want me to work alongside the Lion to enforce your commands, Don Castellani? I’d be delighted.”

But it’s Jack who replies. “We’d like to place you with a crew, actually. An old crew of mine.”

“You want me to run your old crew?” I turn to Jack with a dazzling smile. “What an honor.”

“Not run,” Sandro says. “Work in. And it’s not the crew Jack used to run, but one he worked in himself. I’d like to see if you really can take orders and work in a team, Nero. Are you agreeable?”

I only smile wider. “Of course. I will go wherever I am most needed.”

Sandro goes on, but I only half listen. Because at the back of my neck, I feel a telltale prickle. As a Roman gutter rat, it was my intuition that saved me—right up until La Contessa’s shadow fell over me, anyway. But I’ve learned to trust that intuition. So I stretch casually in my chair, turning to each side as though extending my spine?—

There. Behind the bushes that divide this area from the next.

A pair of bright green eyes.