Page 179 of Dagger in the Sea

No, not nothing. Their attempts didn’t entertain me, nor did they please me, they only set off an ache, a literal pain in the center of my body that radiated through me. It was acute, this pain. It hurt.

I walked home, alone on the streets in the hustle of a Chicago Saturday night and stopped at a bookstore to get a copy ofThe New York Times. Foreign magazines lined two shelves by the cashier. British gossip magazines with royals and soccer studs and models on the cover.“What are the young, beautiful, and rich shopping for this summer?”trumpeted one magazine cover. A photo of a young English royal holding a bright pink leather designer bag and another of a singer’s embroidered denim jacket. Her face jumped off the glossy periodical at me. Blood rushed to my head, my mouth dried.

A photo of Adri in a long, dark linen coat, flat sandals, her hair loose, lips painted burgundy, black sunglasses, her arm through Marko’s who was holding several Burberry shopping bags, his hair much longer than the last time I’d seen him. I grabbed the magazine.

Rifling through it, I finally found the inane article, but there was only one other photo of Adri and Marko—the two of them getting into a chauffeured car outside a restaurant with a mention of how she was keeping a quiet profile since her and Marko’s return to London. I flipped back to the cover photo again. I’d bet she knew she was being photographed; her stride was confident, head tilted toward her brother, mid conversation, a slight smile on both their faces. She was not giving a fuck, she was living, doing her thing.

The way it should be.

I tucked the magazine back on the shelf, tucking that sudden wave of emotion back inside. My hands settled in the pockets of my jacket, my fingers finding that talisman that I took with me everywhere.

Outside, the buildings and damp streets flared with light from the huge store windows, blinking traffic lights, the flow of cars. I looked up at the sky. No crown of stars visible. No stars at all. Rubbing a hand around the back of my neck, I headed home.

Nothing was the same anymore.

Not my Chicago, not the crowds on the streets, the familiar blare of traffic, not the refuge of my apartment, a good meal, a glass of fine red wine.

No, I was no longer the same.

55

Turo

My mother’s latest creation,Porto had finally opened.

The business had turned into a media favorite since the attack, with my mother’s survival and James’s death, my crime lord mystique. From a marketing standpoint it was sheer gold. Me as the new face of the Cavanaugh Group added all sorts of dark, intriguing luster.

Mauro was dead, three of his capos, five soldiers. Valerio was under arrest and under investigation for the murder of Little Anthony, and a meth-making biker associate of the rival Tantucci Outfit. The Tantuccis landed immediately under the telescope for their role in the mass killings of the Guardino chiefs. The two men who had survived the deli bombing hadn’t seen anyone suspicious. At the time of the shooting, these two illegal immigrants had been in the basement stocking jars of pickles and bricks of heroin. And I’d been at a funeral across town in a well-fitted black suit and new shoes, eulogizing my stepfather.

Porto’s menu was spectacular, the food beautifully presented, the staff poised. Fresh seafood flown in from Greece was the highlight, non-GMO locally grown organic produce. Authentic Greek products from beans to lentils to nuts, artisanal breads. And a Greek only wine list.

I made sure my mother’s friends and associates on the Mayor’s task force for neighborhood renewal had known that I fully supported their work by attending a meeting in Erin’s stead, assuring them the restaurant would open. Confidence and relief flared in the stodgy air in that boardroom like a whiff of fresh perfume making everyone blink and sigh.

Half the mayor’s office wanted to suck my cock, the other half had their fingers poised to dial 911 at the sight of me. I’d made many political contacts while working with Mauro. I’d also known many while working with my mother. Then there was the one committee chairman who was a steady client of one of my ladies of the night.

The neighborhood renewal project was full steam ahead. Other business owners had put their projects on hold at the first sign of trouble; on hold no more.

Emilio had chopped up the Guardino octopus. Threw a few chewy tentacles of the syndicate to the fire, others he kept for himself, marinating them carefully with his own special vinaigrette. Emilio was the new guy in town. New guard from the old country wiping slates clean, doing things his way. The brutal way.

Show them how it’s done, Aliberti.Andiamo.

* * *

“Amico?”

My insides tightened at the sound of that melodic accent, and I swiveled to my right and grinned. Alessio was a sight to behold here in Porto’s bar. Heads turned, admiring glances tossed his way by both men and women.

“Alessio.” I clapped him on the back, shaking his hand.

He lifted his chin at me.“Eh, compagno. Come va?”

“I’m good. I’m good,” I replied. “This is unexpected. What are you doing here?”

“A last minute trip. I’ve been in Miami for a photo shoot.”

“Photo shoot?”

“A shop there is going to be selling some of my jewelry. It was an opportunity to go and meet them personally, have fun in South Beach with my uncle, and do the advertising campaign. Of course, I couldn’t leave America without coming here to see Emilio. And you. It’s been over two months since you left Athens.”

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