Epilogue

EPILOGUE

STEPHANO

I sensed something about it was off. Something about the whole situation a week ago in that warehouse was too easy. Franco Fiore picking our abandoned warehouse despite having a troop of Ukrainians looking out for him? Too easy.

At the time, we were all so focused on saving the women and getting the job done, we didn't think too far, but after the initial adrenaline rush of killing Franco, we regrouped and debriefed. Nothing was clear or made sense in retrospect, until Gigi phoned Don Trapani the next day and his first words to her were, I assume it's been done.

"Seems like an old man under house arrest can still pull a few strings," Don Trapani says from across the patio table.

He's suave, charming, and impeccably dressed. His grey hair, which is brushed back, and the cane—which Gigi whispered is new—are some of the few things giving away his age. He's definitely had the odd procedure or two to keep the wrinkles at bay.

He doesn't look the worse for wear after the time spent under house arrest—not that I would have a comparison—but when Gigi burst into tears and hugged him close, relief radiated off her. Apparently, he got manhandled by Franco's men, and his one knee is still in pain. This doesn't stop Don Trapani from going about his business.

Gigi, Carla, and I arrived earlier this afternoon in Lake Como, with enough security to make the Pope go green with jealousy. We just sat down for pre-dinner drinks on his terrace with fantastic views over the mountains and the lake, feeling untouchable here, but we all know it's a lie. Don Trapani's men are stationed, if subtly, on the fringes of the garden. Ours are scattered in between. I'm not taking a risk with my wife or her sister. I already know what Gigi would do if Carla is in danger, so they are a package deal and a dual safety hazard.

"How did you manage, Papa?" Carla asks.

She's clinging to a glass of water, her shoulders tense. We've been instructed not to say a word about her pregnancy. Apparently, good Catholic girls don't get pregnant at eighteen with their bodyguards who are fourteen years older than them. A bodyguard who is still unaccounted for. I didn't hold either woman back when they hit the cellar earlier, looking for Vito Rossi's body. They found nothing.

"Ah, cara ," Don Trapani sighs. "I've been in this business from the day of my birth, born into it like all of you. In all these years, I've seen too much." He smiles wryly, but it dries up pretty quickly. "Forewarned is forearmed. Vincenzo was getting into bad company, and I made provisions for any situation. With Randazzo gone I made sure we were as ready as possible." His gaze flicks to mine, but we don't say a word; the secret of who eliminated Randazzo is still watertight.

"That Friday night caught me off guard, cara , and I will never forgive Vincenzo for breaking my trust like that. The plan was to brief you two girls and see that you were safe, and then he arrived with Franco in tow."

A tense silence sweeps into the space around us as Don Trapani closes his eyes.

"Bless his soul, but he is no son of mine," he mutters as he crosses himself. "But if not Franco, it would have been someone else. Cenzo was a rotten apple from the start."

We all hang our heads in feigned mutual respect for the dead. There are a few things that are never going to come out of our inner Il Consiglio circle. One of them is how Vincenzo died from one clean shot to the back of his head, after Dominic interrogated him about the unknown woman in our care. So far, the story of Franco eliminating Vincenzo seems to be holding up. I hope it lasts. Il Consiglio works on a need-to-know basis, and even though Gigi knows we killed Vincenzo, she will never talk.

Don Trapani's body shudders, and he seems to pull himself together with a deep inhale.

"You girls should both know," he says as he looks at them, one after the other, "I have people outside the Cosa Nostra that put measures in place as soon as a certain situation triggers the first domino. That Friday night was one of those domino moments." He raises his wine glass at Gigi. "You escaping with Carla was something none of us expected. Bravo, Gigi. I always knew you shouldn't be underestimated."

"Thank you," Gigi says softly, but her hand curls into a fist as she pulls it from the table to hide on her lap.

I reach for it, and she slips her fingers between mine. I rest our hands on my thigh underneath the table where nobody can see how tightly she squeezes mine for courage.

"When Vincenzo started thinking about going to Boston," Don Trapani continues, "I knew I had to steer him and his friend in the Scaleras' direction. It was just a subtle hint or two about my old school friend in Boston, and how we had a warehouse in the Boston harbor that's been standing empty for decades now. I never named names, but Franco didn't want any. Rookie mistake. In the end, you made it easy for me to clean up after Franco and Vincenzo."

Of course it's fucking clean. It's an Il Consiglio job with the Scaleras at the helm. Plus the whole shebang happened in the States, keeping Don Trapani's side pristine and him seemingly innocent.

Franco is busy chilling with his buddy in Matteo's promession facility, less his hands, but those have been taken care of, too. On Matteo's recommendation, I took Don Trapani a typical New England gift in the form of maple syrup in two twenty-eight-ounce designer tins, in case he wanted to shake hands with Franco one last time.

If ever he opens those cans, it would be a sticky, messy and probably a very smelly business indeed. I've still to hand him my precious little gift, but this would best be done over a tumbler of whiskey once the women have gone to bed. I might have told Franco I need proof for Gigi's sake of how he'll never touch a woman again, but I know where to draw the line.

I glance at my wife. After what happened here that Friday night, I'm not sure Gigi will be able to sleep in this house at all, and I've booked a room at a boutique hotel farther along the lake just in case. We might be sitting here on a beautiful terrace overlooking Lake Como, with the last of another warm afternoon slipping into sunset, but it's been one close call after the other. None of us is relaxed yet. We're all still on high alert and looking over our shoulders.

"Marriage seems to suit you, cara ," Don Trapani says, breaking into a silence that's borne out of too many secrets. "I'm happy for the alliance, and it's good to have a wider network. The world is changing, and so must we. This thing with Franco—" He breaks off, clearly not over his earlier emotions. "Now with Vincenzo gone, and Franco dealt with, we need a strong leader to step in. I need a new succession plan, as my first failed."

He stares at Gigi for such a long time, the sound of the cicadas becomes a piercing blade in the tense air. His meaning is so obvious, it sends a chill down my spine.

"Papa…" she starts, her hand growing cold in mine where she's clinging for dear life. "I don't…I—" She turns to look at me, stunned. "Please, I don't want to get involved."

"Ah, cara . You've seen the worst of this side of the business. You have a husband from an influential Mafia family whose roots are the same as yours. I support and am happy for your union, even if it came about under unusual circumstances. I would offer Stephano the position first, but he didn't grow up here. He doesn't know our customs firsthand like you do. The position is yours, and I want you to take it."

Fuck. This isn't what we came for. The implication of his words hits me hard. Gigi, the Capo Crimini . No. My darling, beautiful wife is kick-ass and gutsy, but she's too human for this type of job. Too soft. I have a whole life in Boston I've never imagined uprooting. Least of all to return to the place where Don Scalera grew up.

Or Mom. Bianca Randazzo. Her world forever captured in oil paintings that hang around her sons' apartments and houses.

Fuck.

"You're still young, Papa," Carla says. "Surely?—"

"What happened cannot happen again, Carla," Don Trapani interrupts. "Know this. Without succession in place, we are as vulnerable as a newborn fawn." His eyes meet mine across the table, and he tips his head toward me. "Gigi will not do it alone. She will have you, her husband, who, from what I understand, is a good man."

Mostly. Fuck. For a week, I've had peace. No voice in my head telling me it's in my blood. I had my wife in my arms at night, her sweet kisses on my body, her contented sighs mixing with my own, our heartbeats fast where we were pressed close against each other in release.

Now, he asks me to become the one thing I loathe being the most. I know what it takes to be the Don. It takes everything .

"No, Papa—" Gigi protests, but Don Trapani raises his hand to cut her off.

"This is the thing, Gigi. You remember your father. You've experienced Franco Fiore. I know you want out, but it's the people who want out who we really need to keep in the organization, purely because they are not bat-shit crazy." He rubs a hand over his face. "Men like Franco Fiore, like Vincenzo, don't have limits or self-control. They rule with terror and not logic. I won't have one of them step into my shoes, and neither should you."

"Papa—"

"Hear me out, cara ," he says, serious now. "Ten years, you've roamed Europe, and I let you, because I knew you would build valuable connections amongst the rich. I'm not interested in Randazzo's businesses, the 'Ndrangheta can fight over that between themselves. In fact, if I could put an end to it, I would. But you know how this works. Demand generates supply, not the other way around."

I swallow, sitting stiff in my chair. Yeah, there would be no need for human trafficking and any other depravity if there weren't a demand for it.

"I want you, cara , with Stephano, to come work with me, learn the ropes, meet our capos , the families, settle here to take over from me when I retire."

I hate it when someone talks sense. I know Don Trapani's type. He might be a don, but he is also a charmer, and he will get to her eventually. And I will have her back.

"Surely, Gigi isn't your only option?" I ask when the silence stretches just a few seconds too long. "What about the mole?"

Gigi shoots me a glance; Don Trapani hitches his brow. "The mole serves his purpose best as an unknown entity."

This hacks that idea off at the knees. "You know I can't just leave Boston. I have businesses I run?—"

"Many of your businesses are online. You have good management in place at your clubs and other above-board businesses. You can manage," the Don says. "And Matteo can spare you. He has three more brothers to rely on. I have no sons, and you've married my daughter now. I'm welcoming you into the family, as a son. My son ."

Fuck. The expectation is clear. This was something we never thought about when we married in a rush with divorce as an end goal. There are vows I will never break: those I made to my wife on our wedding day.

Servers appear with platters of antipasti, and we sit silent while they put them down and set the table with plates and cutlery. One server proceeds to top off everybody's wine and pours Carla some more water. With a little bow to the Don, they both wait for further instruction. Don Trapani waves them away.

"We'll have to discuss it," I say without preamble. "This isn't an easy decision, nor one that should be made lightly."

"Of course. I understand," Don Trapani says with a nod.

"I can't go back to Boston," Carla says softly.

I curse under my breath. If nothing else, that's going to seal the deal.

"Well, then," Gigi says as she reaches for a serving fork and puts some antipasti on my plate. "The Scaleras have a jet. We can fly back to Boston whenever you need to, Steph."

I grunt. The Trapanis have the yacht. And this mansion on Lake Como. And their city residences in Palermo and Rome. An apartment in St. Tropez. And a mountain hut somewhere in Switzerland for skiing. And almost a billion euros in some random unknown bank vault nobody talks about, because with Vincenzo's death, the whole inheritance now comes to Gigi and Carla. Fuck my life. I love money as much as the next person, but this is too much.

"Well, then," I echo Gigi, somewhat resigned already. "I've always wanted to work on my Italian."

"See," she whispers as she leans in with a soft smile, her eyes however apologizing all the way. "It won't be all bad."

Fuck. And there I was planning on a cozy life in Boston with the woman I love.

There's no peace for the wicked.

Mafia business is, after all, in our blood.