Chapter 39
Nonnina was waiting for Luca to arrive. She couldn’t sleep a wink. Whenever he wasn’t home after dark, she was always worried. The man had been shot more times than she could count.
She sat in her chair by the window, rosary wound around her fingers. Every passing car made her straighten. Every distant siren tightened her chest.
He had once spent a year in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot. Tubes everywhere, machines breathing when his lungs refused to, doctors whispering words they thought she couldn’t hear.
He had once been in jail for months. That nearly broke her more than the bullets ever did. Jail meant walls she couldn’t cross, doors she couldn’t push open. It meant waiting for phone calls that came too short and ended too fast. It meant reading his moods through the tone of a single “I’m fine, Nonnina,” knowing damn well he wasn’t.
So she worried. Constantly. Worry had become her second heartbeat.
Whenever he didn’t come home, she waited. Always waited. No matter the hour, no matter the ache in her knees or the scolding from the doctor about sleep. Luca might command fear in the streets, but in this house he was still her boy. Her diavolino.
So when she heard the car roll in at about three in the morning, tires crunching softly against the driveway, she heaved a sigh of relief. She slipped her feet into her flip-flops, and shuffled toward the stairs.
“Keeping an old woman awake until dawn. This boy will kill me yet p>
She had a speech prepared. A good one too in Italian.
But then she saw him step out of the car slowly. And in his arms was Veronica. Her head tucked against his chest.
Nonnina stopped.
Her anger died instantly.
Her diavolino had finally become a man.
She could see it. In the way he held her. In the way he adjusted his grip unconsciously, shielding her from the cool night air. In the way his face softened when he looked down at her.
Most of all, she saw it in his eyes.
“Madonna santa,” Nonnina whispered.
He didn’t see her at first.
Who was this woman who had got her diavolino wrapped around her thumb?
She was glad. Truly glad. She had prayed for this moment longer than she cared to admit.
But she also knew the price.
The Genovese men frowned on love because love was a weakness the world would happily exploit.
Luca walked toward her. “I’m sorry, Nonnina. Time got away from me p>
Nonnina watched him as he passed.
He laid Veronica gently on the bed of the flat behind the mansion, the one Nonnina had prepared for her earlier. He tucked the blanket around her.
Nonnina followed him out. “This is trouble, Diavolino,” she said finally.
“Yes, Nonni. It is p>
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I don’t know p>
“Come on. Head to bed. Get some rest. She will be fine.” Nonnina’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He nodded, feeling the tension of the night ease slightly but not disappear. His thoughts were already circling back to Veronica.
He walked back into the mansion proper. Every room seemed to whisper her name, every echo a reminder that he was no longer untouchable. In his mind, the memory of her lips, her voice, and the defiance in her eyes replayed.
Cassidy stepped into the bullpen of the precinct at seven sharp, the early morning hum of printers and chatter doing little to calm the tight coil of anxiety in his chest. He was looking for one person, and one person only: Detective Voss. Voss was the man who refused to let Luca Genovese slip through the cracks, the one person who had connected the dots from the quiet businessman who looked like an angel to the feared mafia God who was actually the devil.
Voss slumped at his desk, half-asleep, an open file labeled Luciano Genovese on his desk.
Cassidy slammed a fist on the desk, rattling the papers and shaking Voss fully awake. The detective jerked upright, eyes wide, hair mussed. “Mr. Grant? Everything okay?” he croaked.
“No. Everything is not okay!” Cassidy shot back, leaning over the edge of the desk. “You said you would call me with updates, Detective Voss. You said you’d keep me in the loop p>
“I’m still waiting for my captain’s approval for this case,” Voss muttered, rubbing his eyes and attempting to regain composure.
“Screw approval!” Cassidy barked. “Luca—he said something last night when he came over to my house…with Veronica p>
“He came to your house? With her p>
“Yes,” Cassidy replied.
“Is she okay p>
“How can she be okay?” Cassidy shot back, fists tightening. “This man has her captive. She might not look harmed but I know her. I know that look in her eyes when she’s terrified, and she’s doing everything in her power to make herself look composed p>
“Listen, Mr. Grant. Women get floored by Luca all the time. I’ve dealt with him long enough to know. I don’t think your girlfriend would be any different p>
“You’re wrong,” Cassidy snapped. “She’s stubborn, she’s smart, and she’s…she loves me. She said it—right there, in front of him. While he was standing there.” His jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists, trembling with fury.
Voss’s eyes narrowed. “So what did he say p>
Cassidy’s eyes darkened. “He said he owns the NYPD. That’s exactly what he said. That means he’s untouchable. Voss…you can’t run this by anyone. The moment you do, someone in his pocket will know. Someone will alert him, and then…then she won’t have a chance p>
Voss looked around the bullpen. He was right—Voss couldn’t deny it. The last time they had Luca, they had him cornered, with evidence stacked high enough to bury him, and yet somehow it had all slipped through their fingers. Witnesses vanished, files disappeared, even the men inside the department who had been loyal enough to feed information had gone silent.
Of course, there was always that unsettling rumor that someone in the NYPD answered to him, but claiming that he “owned the NYPD” sounded like the kind of exaggerated bravado a criminal always displayed.