34. Cristiano

C ristiano

I close the car door softly and look around. I've never had cause to set foot in Tony Castellano's port, but I should have come here sooner. It's clear this is a business that's cared about. The roads are clean and tidy, and the port workers seem mostly relaxed and happy. Only those whose gazes flicker my way appear uncomfortable.

Three large containers are lined up side by side. There's a sign on one of the doors signaling which one is the visitor's office. I'm guessing the other two are Tony's management office and a workers' breakroom.

I open the door of the visitor's office, and two women look up. They're older, around Allegra's age, and looked like they were immersed in work until I showed my face. Now they look mostly alarmed.

One of them rises to her feet. "Mr. Di Santo ... How can I help you?"

"Is my brother still here?"

"I believe so, sir. He was in the portside warehouse at the south end of the yard. Or at least that's where he said he was going."

"I haven't seen him leave," the other woman says, her expression hopeful.

"Thanks." I go to let myself out but stop mid-stride. My brow furrows in thought before I glance across at the women. "Do me a favor. Whatever you hear in the next fifteen minutes ... don't call security, okay?"

Both of them widen their eyes at me.

"Or the cops, or Tony, or anyone for that matter. Understand?"

They nod timidly.

I follow the port road to the bottom of the yard. The walk takes ten minutes. I really should have given myself a longer window. When I reach the warehouse, I walk around the outer edge slowly and quietly, until I hear voices coming from inside. I close my eyes and let the sounds help me decipher a view of where everything is. I tune in to the three voices and acclimate to the accents, then I focus on the words.

This is what I do.

I listen and watch for cheats.

Savero seems to be doing most of the talking. "You don't need to concern yourself with what's going to happen to them when they arrive on these shores. I'll handle that, Miguel."

Miguel?

The only Miguel I know of works for one of the Mexican cartels. Our father had an ongoing dispute with him over the importation of illegal firearms. Is that what Savero is doing—setting up another firearms transportation deal?

"All you need to worry about is getting them onto the boat. How secure are the containers? Do they have air holes? I mean, I'm guessing they'll need to breathe." He emits a dark chuckle, and I press my ear to the side of the warehouse.

"No need for air holes. They'll be sedated, and there's enough oxygen in those things to last the journey across the Atlantic."

What the fuck are they talking about? Animals?

"Trust us, Savero. We've done this a thousand times before. Only a couple die each journey, but that's the risk. They know the risks."

"Promise me, no children."

Savero's words slice through my chest.

"Dead children are bad for business."

I've heard enough. It's clear my brother—my own flesh and blood—is plotting with the Mexicans to traffic humans into the country via Tony Castellano's port. It makes complete sense now why he was so keen to get his hands on it.

A lot of other things make sense now too.

This is why Savero poisoned Father—because Father got wind of his ambitions and didn't want him to succeed as don.

This is why Savero wanted me out of the way—so I wouldn't jeopardize his marriage to Trilby. It needed to be him , because he needed the port.

This is why he tried to drown me as a kid, and why I've never felt close to him—because he's a fucking psychopath. I mean, made men are hardly model citizens, but this takes "morally gray" to a whole different level.

"I'll do my best, Savero, but, you know, some slip through."

The nonchalance of the heavily accented tone makes me sick.

I draw a glock from my waistband and turn back the way I came, toward the entrance. The door, understandably, is closed and probably bolted. I can either wait out here until they emerge or shoot my way inside. Either way, I guess I have the element of surprise on my side.

I weigh up my options.

Out here is pretty open, and I don't particularly want to subject Castellano's workers to an open-air bloodbath—not that they're likely to be morally pure either.

I aim the barrel of the gun at the door and roll my neck. Knots crackle along my muscles, and I hold onto that sense of satisfaction, then I gun the entire door off its hinges.

I step inside the warehouse and come face-to-face with three pistols aimed at my head. Savero and the two Mexicans have stood up at my arrival.

I laugh. "Here you all are. Now ..." I slide the glock into my waistband and stride toward them. "What did I miss?"

Savero's eyes are wide. Understandably so—he thought I was dead.

Thankfully, he can't shoot me in front of Miguel and his sidekick. If I know anything about this particular cartel, it's that they don't like infighting or betrayal. They're old-school. A code is a code. If they saw Savero shoot his own brother, their faith in his loyalty and honor—as laughable as that is already—would be called into serious question. This deal would not go ahead.

Miguel flashes an annoyed scowl at my brother.

Another thing I know about this cartel: they don't like surprises.

" Fratello ..." Savero says through gritted teeth, sliding his pistol into his waistband.

I suppress a shudder.

"Seems like you got yourself a good yard here," I say. "Especially for the kind of shipments I just heard you discussing."

The two Mexicans exchange a nervous glance but lower their firearms.

I hold my hands up and sit on one of the metal chairs positioned in the center of the space. The three men tentatively sit but lean forward as though they're ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

"I was just walking our friends out," Savero grits out. "Come. Let's see them off, and I'll bring you up to speed."

I beam him a smile and stand again. No one is saying what they're really thinking. This is the world I've lived in for ten years running casinos. I've seen great poker faces and terrible poker faces, and I can read them all. And I'm bathing in the awkwardness.

"Great."

I wait for Miguel and his associate to pass. They're still white-knuckling their firearms.

"Hide the guns, will you?" I ask. "This port is a family business."

They both throw me another scowl but do as I ask.

Savero pauses when he reaches my side. He's pissed—either because I've interrupted his meeting or because I haven't died.

"After you, brother," I say, cocking my head toward the exit.

Savero doesn't conceal his gun, but I didn't expect him to. All I needed was a slight upper hand, and I've got it.

We reach the exit, and the Mexicans walk on through, leaving me and Sav still inside. I wrap a hand around the back of my brother's neck, shoving him face-first into the wall. His arm flies up, and I shoot a bullet straight through it before pressing the barrel to his temple. His gun clatters to the stone floor, and I flick it up with my foot, catching it in my free hand. I haven't had as much practice at handling a gun as Savero has, but I've been preparing for this the whole drive here.

Miguel's face appears around the doorframe. Nothing like a gunshot to make a mob man curious.

I cock the trigger of Sav's gun and put a bullet through Miguel's forehead. When the second cartel guy pokes his head around the frame, he gets one in the side of his face. Both slide to the ground.

A thin smile creeps across Savero's face. "Drink the water, did she?"

"What water?" I test.

"Well, something's clearly happened to your precious woman, and you're still alive, so ..." He shrugs. "Is she dead?" His tongue clicks against his teeth on that last syllable, and I shove his head so hard into the wall blood starts to trickle down his cheek.

"If you think I'm telling you anything about that "woman," you can think again," I hiss in his ear.

I press one gun to his forehead and turn him around so he can see nothing but me. Then I press the other to his throat.

The smile on his face is designed to make me crack, but he's getting nothing but steel out of me from here on in.

"Why?" I say. It's not a question—it's a fucking command.

"Why ... what?" A sneer curls his lip.

Man, he's going to play with me till the end.

I roll my eyes skyward. "Where do I begin?" Then I level him with the kind of glare I'd give a murderer, not a brother. "Why did you try to drown me?"

His right eyebrow inches upward. "I didn't like you."

I grind my teeth. "Why did you try to poison me?"

His eyes narrow into slits. "I still don't like you."

I can't deny the way his words form a fist around my heart. I had no idea his hatred wound this deep.

"What did I ever do to you, brother?"

His sneer sharpens. "You were born ."

My natural reaction is to step back in shock, but there's a part of me that knows I need to fire at least one of these two guns. Not for me—I can deal with his hatred—but for Trilby.

I step up to his face. "I've done nothing to you. I even moved to the west coast because I didn't want to get in your way."

"Until something caught your eye—right, fratello ?"

My teeth grind so hard I feel like I might soon be spitting them out. "Not that it matters to you, but I met her first, fratello ."

"Two nights earlier, right?" he says lazily. "I heard."

I laugh in his face. "Bullshit. It was a little earlier than that," I say, cryptically.

"What the fuck does it matter? She was engaged to me ."

"Because you wanted this port. Not because you wanted her."

He enunciates slowly, so I don't miss a beat. "She was collateral. That's all women are fucking useful for."

My fingers itch to pull the triggers. Both of them.

"And what about Father's hope that I would succeed him?" I taunt. "That had to rub you up the wrong way ..."

He glares at me as if he didn't think I had the balls to confront him on that. Then he laughs, dark and low. "Why do you think we find ourselves at this impasse? What do you think started this chain of events?"

"I don't know, Savero. All I know is what Augie told me."

Savero relaxes his chin onto the barrel of the gun. "The fucker always was a little too close to Father for his own good. But let me burst this bubble for him. I didn't find out about Father's succession plan from that rat. I found out from Father himself."

What?

With his uninjured arm, Savero taps at a part of his jacket that covers an inside pocket. "Father wrote a letter. To you."

My jaw drops, which I'm sure is his intention.

"It goes into great detail about how he wants the family to be carved up and managed, with you at the helm. Me?" He laughs again, but there's more defeat in his tone than darkness. "I wasn't even considered fit to be a capo."

My heart drums. Father didn't even want Savero as a capo? That would have had to hurt. In seconds my fingers relax. I'm unsure I have the conviction to pull the triggers anymore.

Then his lips purse into a point, and I hardly recognize him. "But I've fucking shown him. I have some lucrative deals lined up that would have doubled our investments, and a virgin bride I could have thrown around a room for a night."

I let out a morbid chuckle, drawing his gaze to mine.

I'm straining to tell him she's no longer a virgin, but that was never all she was, and to gloat about that would be to undermine everything she is.

"You don't deserve her," I say. "And she certainly never deserved you."

His bullet-like eyes swivel to mine, and I know I can't prolong this. I have more important places to be and more important people to be with.

"We could have been epic, you and me," I say, and I mean it. "But you couldn't see through your hate."

His shoulders slump. "Do it, Cris."

I freeze. He hasn't called me Cris since I was a kid, and it was so long ago it feels alien. I don't realize until now how much I've yearned for the brotherly connection we may have once had.

"Don't . . ." I murmur.

His lip curls up at one end, but there's sadness in it. "Would it help if I told you I would have raped her on our wedding night?"

My breath escapes me, and in the blink of an eye, I can see he's taunting me to get it over with. I don't know which way is up anymore. All I know is that a man who has lied to me—hated me—all my life just suggested he'd hurt Trilby in the worst possible way.

He senses my conviction collapsing and moves suddenly to knock one of the guns from my grip. We both make a dive for it and I feel his knee drive up into my ribcage knocking the wind right out of me. I roll onto my back and in a split second he's standing over me, a boot poised just inches above my face. His gun rests casually by his side like he isn't going to need it, but I've always been quicker than him.

"Wait–" I plead.

He twists his foot so he can see my eyes.

"I would have loved you, brother," I whisper.

Just as he catches a breath I cock the gun and shoot him through the jaw.

He drops heavily to the ground and I leap to my feet to take a last look at his dying features. His lips are contorted into a sneer until the last of his breath leaves him. Only then do they soften. Only then does he look like a human being, like the brother he could have been had he not let his hatred eat him up inside.

I stare at him for a full minute, then I snap into autopilot. I shove the glocks into my waistband and pull the two Mexican bodies inside the warehouse, out of sight of the port workers. I retrieve the door from the floor and prop it up, sealing the bodies from the road. At the very least, I'd prefer for none of Castellano's employees to see two dead and dismembered corpses in their place of work. They've earned their dinner—they should be able to eat it.

I flip open my phone and place a call. It's the type of call I haven't had to make in more than ten years, but as it turns out, it's like riding a bike. You never forget.

"I need a cleaner."

A voice speaks at the other end.

"Two," I reply. "Castellano Shipping Co. Warehouse seven. And there's one more ..." I take a breath. "A Di Santo."

The voice on the other end of the line stills for a moment. "We're on our way."

I hang up the call and bend at the knees. Then I open Sav's jacket and reach inside the pocket. I half-expect it to be a complete fabrication, but there is an actual letter, folded and well-thumbed. I pocket it without reading it and flick the buttons on Savero's jacket, then I rip his shirt apart.

There it is. The Di Santo crest.

I remember us both aged fourteen sitting for hours in the back-alley tattoo parlor, under the watchful eye of our father, while the symbol of saintliness, a dove amid a tongue of flame, was inked onto our chests. Grief floods through me—not for the brother I just lost but the brother I never had.

The brother I did have never deserved that crest. Not in life ... or death.

And with that final defiant thought, I flip out my pocketknife.