Page 3 of Bruno
The town was as nondescript as the home. He’d settled them in Stone’s Throw, Michigan, because the town was covered by the Roarer’s MC. A motorcycle gang he recruited to watch over her, the child, and the neighborhood. This island of the town hadn’t had so much as a newspaper stolen off a front porch since they’d been protecting her. He picked the Roarers because although they had some connections, because of the drugs they smuggled between Canada and the U.S., they weren’t affiliated with any particular family and were fiercely loyal. The Roarers were a good choice. Stone’s Throw a safe location. Or it had been before my father, and Verranzanos messed things up.
I scanned the neighborhood again. It was Sunday, and the street was quiet at eight am. Some neighbors had probably already left for church. Did they attend a Sunday service? I’d been raised Catholic by my Italian mother, but I know God had ex-communicated me years ago. I’d never earn heaven, but I wanted a seat behind those pearly gates for my son. Hoped one day he’d get to meet my mother. Hoped she was looking down on him, loving him—like she did me. God may have given up on Bruno, but my mother would never stop loving Sal Jr. No matter what crimes I committed, there was one place where I’d always be given absolution.Was here another?
“Fuck this,” I muttered. I wiped my hands again and rang the bell. How would she have changed? Did she look the same? Would she recognize me? Would I recognize her? Hell, yeah. She could be a hundred years older and a gray-haired, wrinkled crone, and I’d know her. I’d recognize her by the way she held my heart. A heart that started stampeding when the lock disengaged. Only one lock, fucking Marco, he’d pay for that lapse.
I took a deep breath when the door opened—and released it. Not, my Tia. A boy, no a young man, answered instead. His dark, wavy hair was curlier than mine, and his light brown skin was the color of my summer suntan. But it was his face—a fucking mirror, that winded me.My son.He sized me up the way I did him, and then his eyes narrowed. And there was the glare, his expression all Attia’s and his icicle-cold Coke-colored eyes all Falcone.
“Yeah?” This little shit was quick. He’d already figured out who I was. Put two and two together and made four.
“I’m here to see Attia Wilson. Is she home?” I played him the same way he did me. As if I didn’t recognize my twin. I wasn’t going to do the big reveal on the fucking front porch.
“No.” He started closing the door until my shoe stopped him.
“She’s here. Let me see her.”
“No,” he repeated. I loved how he was protecting his mom. I got that, but she didn’t need protection from me.
“Not asking kid.” He would eventually dwarf most people. Chris’s size was already competing with mine. But he didn’t stand a chance when I gave a quick shove that pushed him and the door back.
He stumbled but didn’t fall. The commotion was enough to send her from the kitchen. Wiping her hand on a towel when she stepped in—looking better than I remembered. My memory had no match for the vision she’d become. Lovelier than she’d ever appeared in my dreams. I wanted to fall to my knees and bury my face in the stomach that had born our child and live there.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but her face was clear and glowing. There were no lines or wrinkles—just smooth fawn-colored skin and wide doe-shaped eyes that froze when she saw me.
“Salvatore Falcone.” She breathed my name like a prayer. And I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s Bruno now. Bruno Falcone. You’re looking good.”
She blinked and swallowed. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before finally saying, “Thanks.”
I turned to my son. “Let’s go inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She looked between us, furrowing her brow. “Christopher,” she said sharply, “Go to your room. Mr. Falcone and I have a few things to talk about privately.”
With me, he’d been a protective son, gatekeeper, and fierce knight. With his mother, he turned into a pouting teen. “But mom…”
“No buts. Now, Chris.”
He trudged off, stomping down the hall, but not before throwing a last parting shot over his shoulder. “Call me if you need help getting rid of that stranger.” He stressed stranger, and I smiled. Even if we hadn’t looked alike, I’d recognize him, too. Funky attitude. No respect for authority. Yes, he was my son, alright.
“Why are you here?” Attia’s words drew my attention. She twisted the towel between her hands. Wringing it like a washerwoman. “I assume there’s trouble. How bad is it?”
“Bad enough that I need to take you and Christopher to a safe location.”
She shook her head. “We’re fine here.”
“Not anymore, you’re not.” I glanced at the front door. “My enemies found you. They’ve put a hit out on you, me, and my whole family.”
“I thought that was why you sent us away. You said it was the only way we’d ever be safe. You promised this would not—” She broke off, her eyes filling with fear and emotions I couldn’t identify—and didn’t want to try. Not now. Not when all I wanted to do was take her in my arms and…
“I know what I promised. But someone slipped up. I can’t undo it. All I can do now is protect you with everything I have.”
Her face paled. “Sal, this is our home. You don’t know what you’re asking.” She looked around, her voice lowering as if the walls were listening. “Chris can’t leave his school, his friends. We can’t just up and leave. We have lives here. Jobs. School.”
Oh God. It was taking everything I had not to snatch her in my arms and keep her there forever. Shit. I knew—damn, how well did I know, that I wasn’t over her. But the feelings I had for her were doing ninja karate chops on my heart. Kicking it in every direction. Battering it. Now, that she was finally, finally within reach. She was looking at me with those big brown eyes I could never resist and asking me for the one thing I couldn’t give her. I’d do anything for her. Fucking anything. Hadn’t I clawed my heart out of my chest to send her away. I’d do fucking anything, I’d already proven it. Anything except compromise her safety. I ignored my limping bloody heart, locked it in an iron cage, and said, “You have one hour.”
“But Sal—”
