Page 33 of Kept

“I’m not a normal priest,” he replies automatically.

Giuseppe is one of the old guard, the really, really old guard. You needed something, he could make it happen. Information? Done. Cuban cigars? Done. A crematorium in the middle of the night? Done. Now his sons run a mostly legal mortuary in Brooklyn. Mostly.

But somehow, Giuseppe knows everything. I think it’s because no one pays attention to the old man with the cane drinking his coffee or eating his dinner or reading his paper.

Marco rolls his eyes. “The old bastard is going to outlive us all, that’s how he’s doing. Anyway, apparently he overheard some new guys down at Piccolo’s. Talking a big game about how there was going to be a new boss in town.”

I glare at him. He’s burying the lead, and he damn well knows it.

“Salvatore Rizzuto.”

“Fuck,” mutters Alessandro.

“So, would your former brother-in-law order a hit on you?” Marco asks.

I finish the whisky, refill it, and toss that one back.

“I haven’t seen or heard from Salvatore or his father since the funeral.” Salvatore had the same emerald green eyes as his sister. I remember the look of unfettered rage in his eyes that day. “But yeah, he probably would.”

“That marriage was arranged when the two of you were ten years old. None of that was your fault,” Marco says.

“Grief isn’t logical.” And, technically speaking, she’s dead because of me. I look up just in time to see Alessandro’s eyes meet mine. He knows what I’m thinking. Bastard always knows what I’m thinking.

The three of us sit in silence for a few minutes. Alessandro with his God, me with my ghosts, and Marco with his rumors.

Alessandro breaks the silence. “How did Sarah take it?”

“Better than I would have thought, honestly,” I reply.

“Speaking of her,” Marco says, pulling out his phone to look something up. “She took her mother’s maiden name when she turned eighteen. Her father was a cop in Colorado.”

Fuck.

“Not to worry,” Marco continues, inappropriately chipper. “He’s dead. Her mom too.”

“How?” I ask.

“Mom was ruled a suicide, but my sources seem to think it was a little suspect. Father was killed in the line of duty a few months later. Rumored he was dirty and double-crossed the wrong cartel trying to get more money out of it.”

“Well, that will do it.” The mafia doesn’t have anything compared to the cartels when it comes to making a statement.

“Who raised her?” Alessandro asks.

“Seems like she ended up in a foster group but got awarded a scholarship for a ballet boarding school.”

“Where is she now?” Alessandro asks.

Before I can answer, a voice comes from behind me. “She?”

Our mother stands in the doorway, casually sipping a cup of espresso. Rosalina De Luca looks unimposing with her petite stature that’s softened with age and good cooking, but you’d be a damned fool to forget that she was the wife of a mafia don for over thirty years.

“Mamma,” I greet her and kiss her cheek. “Sarah is—” I struggle with a quick explanation.

Marco doesn’t. “A witness to two of your sons almost committing a felony.”

She laughs. “Ah, so naturally you bring her here?”

“It’s complicated.”

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