Page 53 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

A knock on the door interrupted my whisking. Taking my gun from the silverware drawer, I crept to the door. Through the peephole, black eyes stared back at me.

“Open the fucking door, fratello,” my brother growled.

I flipped the lock, and Sandro pushed inside.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I mocked, going back to my baking.

The gun glinted on the countertop beside the carton of eggs. I felt the don’s stare, but I ignored it. The amount of times he’d been here could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.

“You’re…baking.”

“Yes,” I said, bracing for his teasing.

“You don’t bake.” He shifted his grip on a canvas bag I didn’t realize he’d been carrying.

I set the bowl down. The metal of the stainless steel clanked. “And how would you know? It’s not like we’ve lived together for the last two decades.”

Sandro opened his mouth…and croaked. Laughter spewed from inside, fighting past any words he failed to form.

“Vaffanculo,” I spat and poured the batter into the springform pan. After covering the top, I slid it into a water bath before placing the whole thing in the oven. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Your father-in-law was murdered.”

Leave it to the don to state the obvious. “I know.”

Sandro came around the island, stopped beside me, and leaned his back against the counter. “Are you in danger?”

Under his serious tone was something rare: worry. I pressed my hands against the ledge, pushing back and forth like an exercise as I considered his question. “I don’t think so.”

“And how’s Annaliese?”

I turned around, leaning my own back against the granite to mirror his stance. “Hurting—bad.”

Sandro murmured.

“I hate that she’s the one who found him,” I added.

“But she did good today. We now have access to the media empire.”

With that, and the news companies I already owned under one of the corporate umbrellas, we controlled the local news.

“Her mission wasn’t about finding the dirt on Voss,” I surmised, glaring sideways at my brother.

The don grinned. “I saw an opportunity.”

It was a strategic move. And if everything had gone smoothly, it would have been brilliant.

But my sweet Anna was paying for the little act of espionage.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry that she was the one to discover the murder. Mier said it was gruesome,” the don sighed.

Of course our contact in the Federal Bureau knew. There wasn’t much that happened in this city that he didn’t know about.

“She always wanted her parent’s approval, especially her dad’s. I hate that he’s dead so I can’t beat him to a pulp for ignoring her,” I ground out. “And she’ll never get it now.”

“She never was going to get it,” Sandro said, voice hardening. “Men like him don’t see a good thing when it’s right in front of them.”

“You don’t know that,” I snapped. “I could have made him see.”

A sad smile played on my brother’s stoic features. “I remember a boy who wanted his father’s approval.”

I shifted. Why my brother chose to bring up the past was beyond me. I rose above the horrors of our youth. Years later, I looked back at my actions as pathetic.

Yet you don’t see hers that way.

“You two are perfect for each other,” Sandro mused.

“Thanks.” I thought so too.

I understood Annaliese so much better in the last few days. I was an idiot not to see it before. The evidence was surmounting, and I’d chosen to ignore it.

“I’ve shut you out of the mob, but maybe it’s time for the billionaire to retire. Penelope agrees with me,” the don chuckled.

Join him. Words I always thought I wanted to hear.

“Thanks, fratello, but our situation is profitable because it works.” The bitterness invaded my words despite my best efforts.

The don pulled something out of the bag he held. A custom Venetian mask. “Batman lived two lives, why can’t you?”

I snorted.

It turned into a full-blown laugh.

“What do you say?” He held out the mask.

“I’m in,” I huffed with a smile.

“Good, because we’re going to pay a little visit to the Alley.”

My brows drew together. “I can’t leave my wife.”

Sandro went to the door, which, when he pulled it open, his wife skipped through. “Ooh! What are we making?”

I shook my head. The don thought of everything. I explained the situation to Penelope, who nodded along like I was a child with an art project. Then she shooed us out the door, only pausing to give her husband a swift kiss.

Down on the street, we walked a block in the hot, stale air to my brother’s vehicle. Dante rolled down the driver’s window and looked me over.

“Put the damn mask on,” the enforcer clipped.

Scowling, I slid into the backseat and then tied the mask. It was made of animal hide, forming to my face.

“What’s in the Alley tonight?” I asked.

As Dante drove to the heart of the Mancini territory, Sandro informed me that Old Man Garibaldi passed last weekend.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Camillo was a good man,” I inserted.

“He was, but his youngest son’s an addict. At the funeral, his mother asked me to do a favor,” Sandro intoned.

We parked in front of Pizzeria Ostiense, and a wave of nostalgia shot through me. Annaliese took me here on our first unofficial date.

Dante unlocked the front door and moved to silence the alarm on the wall. Flanked by my brother, we went to the back where the stairs led to the apartments above. The building was full of our tenants, each loyal to the mob if not an active participant.

The staircase creaked under our weight, wooden steps smoothed by decades of footsteps.

Portraits of Chicago, black and white and full of history, lined the walls—generations of Italians who’d made this building their sanctuary.

I recognized a few faces from my youth, when Alessandro and I would run these halls while our father conducted business below.

Many of the women would invite us inside for sweets and hot milk.

Too many of those saints were now angels above.

We reached the fifth floor, and the atmosphere shifted upon exiting the stairwell.

The hallway stretched before us, surprisingly pristine despite the building’s age.

The hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting, and the cream-colored walls were unmarked by the usual scuffs and scratches of a well-trafficked space.

Potted plants stood at regular intervals, adding life to the corridor.

“It seems the wives of the famiglia still keep this place immaculate,” I murmured, a painful pinch forming in my chest. I wouldn’t know any of them personally. The older generation was fast fading, and the new didn’t know my name.

Sandro nodded. “Pride in their home. Always and forever.”

The mob provided protection, and the money flowed, but the people we guarded preferred to remain in the generational homes rather than moving into private, splendid dwellings. The sense of community in the mob was strong.

We moved silently down the corridor, our steps barely audible. Stopping before door 508, the don knocked softly.

Shuffled noises sounded from inside.

Donna Garibaldi opened the door and relief swept over her face. “Thank you for coming!”

“Of course, signora.” Alessandro took her hand. “I only wish you’d said something sooner.”

“With Camillo so ill, it took all my focus. But….” Her voice choked with emotion. “I don’t want to lose my boy too.”

Buono dio, these were the kinds of things Alessandro dealt with on a regular basis. I always thought he had it easy, but there was nothing simple about the anguish on the woman’s face.

“This way,” she whispered, leading us down a short hallway inside her apartment.

The smell hit me first—sweat, vomit, and chemicals. My nose wrinkled beneath the mask. The door at the end of the hallway was closed, a thin strip of light visible underneath.

The signora’s hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. “He’s been in there for three days. Won’t eat. Won’t talk to me.”

Sandro placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Wait in the kitchen, donna.”

She nodded, crossing herself before retreating.

The don turned to me. “Like old times, fratello?”

I flexed my fingers. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dante moved first, his foot connecting with the door. The wood splintered around the lock as it flew open, banging against the wall.

Alessandro sprang inside.

I followed, the sounds of a scuffle and then profanities shouted breaking the quiet peace of the building. My brother gripped the younger man by the hair, and I lunged, my fist colliding with his jaw.

Menotti’s head snapped back as far as the don’s hold allowed.

“You piece of shit,” I spat in Italian. “You worthless scum.”

“Treating your mother and your family this way,” the don scolded, voice the temperature of ice. “It’s time to pay for your sins.”

The man looked between us, but when his eyes landed on Dante lounging by the door and twirling a knife, he peed.

I jumped back, bumping into a table where a white powder fluttered to the floor like snow.

“I have money,” Menotti whimpered.

“Wrong,” the don growled. “Your father had money—honest money that he worked for. Your mother has it now. It’s not yours.”

“You haven’t earned it.” I gave his leg a kick as he struggled to stand.

“Please,” Menotti begged. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Dante stepped forward. “Start by cleaning this shit up.”

The man scrambled away. He began to throw his belongings around. Shaking my head, I walked into the kitchen where the signora was praying, leaning against the fridge.

“I was a good mother,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “Where did I go wrong?”

“You didn’t.” I squeezed her clasped hands. “Some children—some people—don’t know a good thing when they have it.”

Her exhale was full of pain and sorrow.

“Where can I find a broom, dustpan, and black trash bag?” I asked.

She scrambled to collect the items, and when I took them, I paused.

“He’s going to come out of this. We won’t let him have any other choice.”

“Bless you, signore.” She peered at me, seeing beyond the mask. “Bless you.”

If she knew who I was, which was a possibility, she would take my secret to the grave.

I returned and we spent a tedious hour with the frazzled, nearly braindead man as he cleaned his room. The vacuuming and scrubbing of the carpet was the hardest to watch. I wanted to rip the tools from his hand and do it myself.

“We’re coming back tomorrow,” the don intoned. “Your room had best be neat and orderly, and we expect to hear that you’ve gone back to work.”

Dante danced his slim blade through his fingers.

“And buy your mama flowers,” I added as an afterthought.

Alessandro shot me a look and nodded. “Here’s a twenty. A big bouquet.”

It was a test. If he spent the money on drugs, if he didn’t go to work, he would pay in blood.

“You’re cleaning up your life, Menotti. Don’t fuck up this second chance. Another funeral will kill your mother,” Alessandro said as a parting shot.

After checking on the signora, and urging her to go to bed, we left.

“You think he can do it?” I pressed.

Sandro sighed.

But it was Dante who answered. “Maybe he can, maybe he can’t. But if he doesn’t have this rock bottom moment, I’ll pick up the pieces and force him to do better.”

I shot the enforcer a look. “You’d go to such trouble?”

“For the donna? Yes.”

The reverence in the way he used that title was obvious. The women in the famiglia touched more than my brother’s and my life. We would defend them, support them, and cherish them until our last breaths. It was what good men did.