Phantom

April 28, 1944

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Genevieve Parsons, it’s that she is as devoted to writing in her journal as she is to her husband.

I have no plans to come between her and her penmanship, but the latter—that, I would love nothing more than to change.

Rain descends from the heavens steadily, blurring my view of her through the bay window. Yet I know every detail of her face—features I’ve grown intimate with over the weeks. The softness that she reserves for her daughter. Every crease around her mouth and eyes when her husband comes home drunk. The fire that ignites in her bright-blue eyes, or the way her soft lips part when she catches sight of me.

If it were up to Angelo, she would be collateral for her husband’s debts.

A means to an end.

Yet I fear she’s meant to end me.

John managed to pay off his debt to Tommy, but then just last week, he dug himself into another hole. Now, he owes Tommy a grand and hasn’t been able to claw his way out of it yet.

So yesterday, Paulie showed up at John’s business, reminding him of his debt to the Salvatores, which John promised to pay. He asked for up to three months, which Angelo has granted him.

If he knows what’s good for him, he will pay Tommy back sooner.

I slide my hands into the deep pockets of my trench coat and slowly approach the front door. My hat shields me from the worst of the storm, droplets pouring from the rim and pattering off the leather of my shoes.

If Genevieve is my end, then I open the door to death with no hesitation.

The warmth from the fireplace is instant as I enter the foyer. Above me, the chandelier’s crystals twinkle in the soft light emitting from the sconces hanging on the dark walls. Cold rain puddles on the checkered floors, leaving a trail behind me as I head toward the living room to my left.

As soon as I round the corner, I’m faced with Genevieve standing before her chair, the piece of furniture rocking behind her.

Chest heaving, she stares at me wildly, as if she’s an untamed animal that can’t decide if it wants to devour me or run away.

I can’t imagine that I stare at her any differently.

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have by now,” she breathes, almost as a placation to her own fearful thoughts.

She’s wrong.

I do want to hurt her.

I’d love nothing more than to see her bare ass reddened by my hand. Or the faintest of bruises around her neck where my fingers grip as I drive into her. And those beautiful eyes filled with tears, pleading for me not to go any deeper down her throat.

Husbands don’t hurt their wives the way I want to hurt her. They save those darker desires for their salacious nights in brothels, where those actions are considered disrespectful but acceptable.

Men are supposed to be gentle with the women they love. Take care of their fragile bodies and treat them like fine china.

I’m confident John has already loved her in such a way, and here she is—so very unsatisfied. If she weren’t, she’d never stare at me so seductively.

There’s nothing gentle about the way I plan to love Genevieve Parsons.

With slow, deliberate steps, I approach her. Her breath quickens as I near, yet she doesn’t move. Doesn’t run from me.

My hand twitches, desperate to touch her.

Even when I’m a mere foot away, she stays.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” she asks, her voice a soft whine.

Because she’s not ready.

She’s not ready to hear what I plan to do with her—to her. Most of all, she’s not ready to hear that I won’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

The thought of it has my hand twitching again, this time for the gun tucked in the back of my trousers, ready to unleash my wrath on anyone who stands in my way of keeping Genevieve.

Just like every other time I’ve visited her, I lift one finger to her soft, reddened cheek. It’s the only contact I allow myself. A small reprieve to my yearning—yet not nearly enough to abate it.

I want so much more, but her daughter will be home from school soon. I retreat and quickly leave, back out the front door, before I do something stupid like stay.

April 30, 1944

“The FBI pinched Manny Baldelli’s son, Gabriele,” Marco Viscuso announces, leaning back in his chair and locking his fingers across his stomach. He’s the don of the Viscuso family, and beside him is his underboss and son, Gianni, and their capo, Luca.

The Viscusos have a good standing relationship with the Salvatores, having operated beneath Angelo’s command for decades. As the godfather of Seattle, all families are beholden to him.

The Viscusos are loan sharks and are ruthless in ensuring they’re the only other family in Seattle that has the authority to lend money—besides the Salvatores, of course. But Angelo has always been more interested in the trafficking business.

Marco stares at Angelo and his underboss and brother, Alfonso, with clear expectation. What are you going to do to handle this?

Alfonso gives him nothing in return.

He’s always been a reserved man, and despite his quiet nature and limited conversational skills, he’s intelligent and astute. He’s a year younger than Angelo, but you’d think they were twins. Both with jet-black hair, aside from grays invading up through their sideburns. Aquiline noses, tan skin, and dark, bottomless eyes. The two of them grew up with birds dripping from their arms, and it’s no surprise they married beautiful women.

“I heard about Gabriele,” Alfonso responds shortly.

Marco stares at him for a beat, waiting for him to expand. When Alfonso stays silent, puffing on a cigar, Marco turns his gaze to Angelo.

“He a rat?” I ask calmly, wishing I had my own cigar with me right about now. There’s a buzzing beneath my skin, and I haven’t been able to place the cause. It’s a nagging feeling, like there’s something you’ve forgotten and you can’t recall what.

We’ve gathered at a restaurant, Caserta’s, on the outskirts of the city. It’s a remote location that resides in neutral territory. Many mob families come here to dine, and there are strict rules in place that no one is to fight.

The owner, Orazio Caserta, is the son of a congressman and offers his restaurant as a haven for all families, regardless of their loyalties or positions of power. Their family has had ties to the Mafia even in Italy, and it’s a relationship they continue to maintain. They only ask for two things: mutual respect and peace when in their territory.

It’s a rule that even Angelo wouldn’t dare cross.

We are all very aware that Orazio holds an extraordinary position, and if any of us were to break his rules, his father could have us in cuffs and in solitary confinement in a matter of days. No trial. No hope of freedom. Only a promise to slowly rot away in the dark for the rest of our miserable lives.

But that’s not what truly keeps us all in line.

Orazio has made examples out of many and has built quite a barbaric reputation—one that mob bosses tell their young children stories about at night.

My fingers drum against the cherrywood table in a rhythmic pattern, and my knee bounces as I cast my gaze over the restaurant for the millionth time.

Orazio designed Caserta’s to transport us back to Sicily. Stucco cream walls, vaulted ceilings with raw beams, rounded stone doorways, dark woods, paintings of grapes hung on the walls, and plant life mingles throughout the booths and tables.

Fedora Mingarelli croons “Un’ora sola ti vorrei” in the background, and the volume of chatter is at a quiet murmur. There are a few other families dining today, but no one that is cause for concern at the moment.

Upon entering, the doorman frisked us to ensure we brought no weapons onto the premises—another strict rule to access the restaurant.

It’s calm. Peaceful.

Yet it still feels like something is . . . off.

“Ain’t all Baldellis rats?” Marco retorts, scoffing.

“Last time a Baldelli got pinched, he was singin’ like a canary,” Luca pipes in, lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply, and peering at me through the smoke billowing over his face.

“We have reason to believe that Gabriele could cause trouble for us should he run his mouth,” Marco continues, his finger beginning to tap restlessly against his hand. “My son, Alessandro, was quite taken with one of Manny’s daughters. He swears he didn’t reveal any information about our operations to her or her brother, but my son is young and uses his cock more than his brain. Before Gabriele was pinched, he was heard talkin’ to others about private matters with my family. Matters he would have known nothing about had my son kept his mouth shut.”

Angelo arches a brow and takes a large swig of his Macallan scotch, hissing at the burn and smacking his lips. Still he says nothing.

“We’ve pledged our loyalty to you, Angelo. I was there for every one of your sons’ birthdays. I was there when Antonio—”

“I’m aware of your attendance throughout my sons’ lives, Marco,” Angelo cuts in, an edge to his tone.

Antonio is Angelo’s firstborn son, and he’s currently fighting in the war alongside his brother and the second oldest, Alessio. The younger two, Aquino and Aretino, are seventeen and sixteen, respectively, and are on the brink of being drafted should this war continue for years yet.

That his two eldest sons are fighting in a brutal war has been a sore spot for Angelo since the day they were deployed two and a half years ago. And the knowledge that he may have to see off two more has driven him to the bottle on many occasions.

Angelo is many things, but no one could ever claim he isn’t a damn good father.

“Speak plainly, Marco,” Angelo clips impatiently.

“I’m requesting your blessin’ to put a contract out on Gabriele before he can rat to the fuzz,” the don says. “I understand this decision may come back to you, so I want it on the record.”

I study Marco closely, noticing how his stare shifts toward the doorway every so often, as if he’s waiting for someone to appear. I turn to look, noting that the entire wall is glass.

I return my focus to Marco just as he’s glancing away from me. His left eye twitches as I stare at him. I may only have one working eye, but I’m not blind to the stench of apprehension leaking from Marco’s pores and his obvious nervous tic.

Angelo taps his pointer finger against his glass contemplatively, takes a slow sip, sets it on the table, then taps it again.

“Gabriele is Manny’s son. Should he be whacked, that could put my own sons in more danger,” Angelo states.

“I understand—”

“I don’t think you do, Marco,” Angelo drawls, leaning back in his chair and staring down the don. “Clearly you didn’t raise your son to understand the implications of not only sleeping with the daughter of a rival family but sharing business operations. Which leads me to believe that Alessandro does not see you as an authority figure to respect. That makes me question your authority, too, Marco.”

Marco’s lips thin into a firm line, and he casts another quick glance toward the door. Again, I follow his line of sight and find nothing.

“I assure you, Angelo, I have drilled into Alessandro’s head the consequences—”

“If you want to drill consequences into his head, do so with a bullet,” I cut in calmly.

Marco chokes, staring at me with bewilderment. Luca and Gianni glance at each other, apprehension beginning to line their shoulders. Gianni is Alessandro’s older brother, and by the rage flashing across his eyes, he doesn’t appreciate my suggestion.

As Angelo’s consigliere, I’m in a unique position to counsel him. He also entrusts me to step in, offering suggestions or solutions on his behalf. And while this particular suggestion is cruel, it’s not one that will be expected to be acted upon.

Which is exactly why I’ve said it.

“Your son has become a problem. If he suffers the consequences, I will allow you to ice Gabriele,” Angelo says, reading my mind as he always does.

It’s an ultimatum Marco won’t take. Angelo gave him an impossible decision rather than an outright refusal as a lesson.

You can’t have an out-of-control son and then cover his mistakes by putting other families at risk. If Marco wants to fix his problem, remove the actual problem.

If Gabriele’s clipped, Manny will retaliate against Angelo and come after his sons. This risk costs far more than trouble for Marco’s business operations.

“I understand, Angelo,” Marco says finally, bowing his head.

Angelo waves his hand, signaling the Viscusos to leave, an order they waste no time in heeding.

Angelo and Alfonso are silent long after the Viscusos are gone, yet that feeling persists.

“Angelo,” I say, staring out the window, watching as cars pass by on the street.

“Hmm?”

The Macallan is pricey. Knocking it out of Angelo’s hand would be a great offense. But expensive scotch will never be worth more than his life. I slap his hand, sending the scotch careening off the table. Before Angelo has time to process what I’ve done, I’m out of my chair.

“Down!” I shout, watching in slow motion as a black car stops outside of Caserta’s and the barrel of a tommy gun appears from the passenger window.

I’m tackling Angelo to the ground a second later just as dozens of bullets crash through the glass windows. Chaos erupts, and within seconds, everyone frequenting the restaurant is on their stomachs and crawling to find cover. I roll Angelo beneath the table, lying on top of him to shield him from the spray of bullets as an enforcer unleashes a magazine into the building.

Dinnerware shatters, thousands of glass shards raining over us. Food and drinks splatter to the tiled floor while cutlery, pictures, and lampshades come crashing down. It feels as if it lasts hours but could only have been a minute or two before the magazine’s emptied.

Then . . . a squeal of tires and a deafening silence, save for “Tango del mare” by Oscar Carboni singing from the speakers.

Heart pounding, I peer down to find Angelo on his back, staring up at me with a feral grin on his face. Holding my gaze, he croons along with Oscar, though a wild look glimmers in his eyes.

Sighing, I roll off him and onto my back, quickly checking to ensure Alfonso is alive. He catches my stare, rage simmering in his dark eyes, but otherwise appears unharmed. Angelo’s voice draws my attention back to him, and I watch my friend sing, his voice growing in volume even as patrons begin to check each other for injuries while a few women softly cry in the back corner.

I chuckle when he directs his gaze to me, his hands animated as he bellows the words.

Then I join in, the two of us belting out the lyrics while the restaurant falls silent once more.

Some of the patrons are merely spooked, and some of them are dead.