Inferno (Blood for Blood #2) (9 page)

‘Mil, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’ She turned out of Cedar Hill and we started heading towards the open road.

‘And please be honest.’

‘I am a pillar of integrity.’

‘Are you or are you not reading a Dr Phil book right now?’

‘That man is a saint, Sophie Gracewell. A damn saint.’

A laugh bubbled out of me. ‘The things you do for me.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she sighed. She revved the engine and the car sped up, setting a steady course for the cemetery.

CHAPTER NINE

THE CEMETERY

G
raceland Cemetery was enormous; almost one hundred and twenty acres of constructed landscape that had been growing since 1860. Now it was a Who’s Who of Chicago’s most important figures. We got the Falcone mausoleum’s location from the main office and chose the most direct route to the lake at the north end of the cemetery. It was bordered by clumps of shrubs and weeping trees. Along the edges, the water was dotted with elaborate stone mausoleums with plaques etched in bronze above them. Some of the names were familiar to me; that’s how I knew we were getting close. We stalled in criminal territory – between the Marinos and the Genoveses – and I pulled out the map again.

‘Crime really does pay,’ said Millie, releasing a low whistle.
‘The question is, which of these Mafia families would I have to marry into to get a sarcophagus?’

We stopped at the inked circle on the map and Millie pointed at something in the trees. ‘I bet it’s right on the lake. Prime cemetery real estate. Classic Falcone, eh?’

We made our way along the hidden path. When the branches of overgrown trees tapered away and the way widened, we found ourselves standing on the edge of the lake. There, secluded by the surrounding trees, and poised along the waterfront, was the Falcone mausoleum.

‘Holy crap,’ muttered Millie. ‘How many gangsters are in this thing?’

The mausoleum was a gargantuan structure made of unblemished white stone. On either side of the main chamber, decorative Roman columns marked a small square courtyard filled with hundreds of long-stemmed red roses.

Two weeping angels guarded the entrance to the mausoleum and above the double bronze doors, the Falcone crest had been erected. Thick block letters were etched into the stone:

CASA DI FALCONE
LA FAMIGLIA PRIMA DI TUTTO

We stood, dwarfed, in front of it.

I pulled the switchblade from my pocket. ‘Should I leave it on the steps?’

‘I guess.’ Millie frowned. ‘It could get stolen, though.’

‘We can’t break in,’ I said. ‘Look at those doors.’

She made her way up the steps and started jiggling the
horseshoe handles. With a deafening thud, the door yielded, and she heaved it open, her mouth dropping into a perfect O as she swivelled to face me.

I sprinted up the steps. ‘Oh my God!’

‘We’re breaking in!’

‘We’re going to get in so much trouble!’

‘OK, wait.’ Millie composed herself. ‘Maybe you should go in first with the switchblade and put it somewhere. I’ll keep watch, then when you come out, we’ll swap, so I can see what it’s like inside.’

I was already slipping inside. My pulse was racing and I couldn’t wait any longer. The darkness was pulling me in.

Millie closed the door behind me. It thumped against the stone, sealing me off from the outside world. There was a sudden absence of warmth, and a staleness in the air. I felt peculiar, as though I was not only stepping into a tomb but into the past as well.

CHAPTER TEN

THE MAUSOLEUM

I
waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. At the end of the passageway, a crescent-shaped stained-glass window sprinkled rays along the ground. At my feet, sparkling shades of blues, greens and reds streaked towards me. On either side of me, tombs were inlaid into the marble like drawers, with stately black handles on either side. They were all marked with a simple plaque, engraved with gold lettering. A corresponding Roman numeral accompanied each name on a separate line.

I brushed my fingers over the inscriptions as I shuffled along, listening to my footfall against the stone floor.

A heavy bronze door had been pushed open at the end of the passageway. The room beyond was dusky, illuminated by a handful of errant rays coming from the window behind me.

I froze in the doorway.

Someone was sitting on a marble bench in the middle of the room. He had his back to me – facing towards another wall of tombs, where Angelo Falcone’s inscription seemed to glow brighter than the others.

Like a statue cursed to life, Luca turned to face me.

‘Oh.’ That was all I could come up with. Seeing him again, alive and so close, his blue eyes blazing in the dimness, caught me completely off guard. Something was snaking around my stomach, clenching and unclenching, as the memory of our last moments together came flooding back.

‘Sophie,’ he said with unexpected casualness. ‘What brings you to my family’s grave?’

He remained seated, his hands resting on black jeans. His face was still paler than it should have been, but he sat straight with shoulders squared, which made him seem tall and strong, as he had been before.
Before I had my hands pressed against the wound in his side
.

I cleared my throat. ‘Um, hello.’

He let the silence linger, watching me. I fixed my attention on his boots – shining silver buckles gleamed across black leather. The boots of a soldier.

‘I was just …’ What was I just? ‘I thought I’d come by and …’

I snapped my head up, searching his face for the answer. His eyebrows lifted, disappearing under strands of black hair. ‘You were just …?’ he prompted.

I pulled myself away from the memories, from the past. Wasn’t that the whole point of my being there? To forget.
The switchblade
. I fished it out of my pocket and held it between
us. ‘I came to give you this.’

He flicked his gaze over it, slow, appraising. His brows drew together. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I was just going to leave it outside somewhere you would find it. But then the door was unlocked and I thought—’

‘You thought you’d trespass into my family’s inner sanctum.’

My cheeks were getting hot. I brought my hair around my face to cover them. ‘Something like that …’

He stood up and came towards me. He wore his injury well, but it changed the way he carried himself, dipping him slightly to one side. I could smell his aftershave and see the small lines underneath his eyes. Did he know how well I knew his face now? It was burnt into my brain from that night. I knew the length and thickness of his lashes. I knew the ones near the corner of his eye were pale, while the rest were jet black. I knew the line of his cheekbone, and where it curved above his jaw. I knew too much.

Luca brought his fingers to his lips, pulling my attention to the small scar above them. ‘You’re telling me you came all the way to Graceland Cemetery to give me back my knife?’ He was trying to find the lie in my words.

‘It’s an important knife.’

‘It is.’

‘And I shouldn’t really have it.’

He plucked the knife from my hand and rolled it over. He looked up, frowning. ‘There’s blood on this.’

‘Is there?’ I leant closer until I was almost nose-to-chest with him. I couldn’t see any blood.

‘Here.’ He pressed his fingernail against the base and I stared until a tiny brown spot came into focus. It was just inside the
L
in the inscription.

I pulled back, grimacing. ‘I thought I cleaned it all.’

When I looked at him again, his face had clouded over. I stepped back, suddenly conscious of how close we had been standing.

‘What did you do with it, Sophie? Did you hurt someone?’

‘Don’t you think that’s a tad hypocritical considering you’re an assassin?’

‘That’s different. I’m trained. You’re … you.’

I threw him a withering look. ‘I know you think that’s some sort of insult, but I’m choosing to take it as a compliment.’

‘Take it as you like.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Who did you stab?’

‘
Fine
,’ I relented. ‘If you
must
know, I may or may not have accidentally stabbed myself when I was sleeping.’

‘Ah,’ he said, like the answer to some great riddle had been revealed to him. His face relaxed and he resumed blinking. ‘
That
makes sense.’ He closed the blade and slid it into his pocket. ‘No more switchblade for you.’

‘I didn’t want it anyway,’ I told him, my tone petulant. ‘I’m clearing out my life of everything that’s been harmful to me.’

‘So
that’s
why you came,’ he said, circling around me and turning to look at the walls again. ‘To clear out the assassins once and for all.
Symbolically
.’

‘Yes,’ I said to the back of his head. ‘I’ll have you know it’s a form of therapeutic healing.’ His hair had grown since I’d seen him last. It was still shaggy, but stray black strands swept across his neck now. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and
from the back I could see a glimpse of a silver chain disappearing beneath it. I wondered what it was. I wondered why I cared.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘And here I was thinking you wanted to see me again.’

My body erupted in violent incredulity. ‘
What? Why
would I want to see you again? We’re not even friends. Honestly, Luca, you’re so full of yourself.’

He turned around on the heel of his boot, amusement colouring his voice. ‘I’m joking, Sophie. Don’t have a coronary.’

‘You have a terrible sense of humour.’

‘Maybe it’s too complex for you.’

‘Don’t make me regret saving your life,’ I teased, wiping the smirk off his face and shining a light on that Big Thing we had been so expertly avoiding.

‘Oh yeah,’ he said, feigning a sudden memory flash. ‘That.’ He wound his fingers together. ‘I’m not sure I ever thanked you.’

I raised my eyebrows, expectant.

‘Thank you,’ he said, acting shockingly earnest, before flipping his accent into a rolling Italian lilt, and adding, ‘
Grazie, sinceramente
.’

‘It’s OK.’ I waved my hand around in the air. ‘I got your flowers.’

Luca’s face screwed up. ‘What? I didn’t send you flowers.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ I deadpanned him. ‘You didn’t send me
anything
.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see what you did there. Maybe I’ll reconsider.’

‘I imagine it will be a cold day in hell before Luca Falcone
gives anyone a bouquet of flowers.’

The corner of his lips twitched. ‘It’s not really the Falcone style.’

‘I guess there’s nothing so sweet as honey,’ I said, only dregs of joviality left in my voice now.

That really did shut him up. He turned around and let his attention settle on the wall again. He didn’t gesture for me to leave, and even though I should have, I didn’t. I lingered, without really knowing why I wanted to hang out in a dusky tomb with a bunch of dead murderers and someone who had once made my skin burn with hatred. Someone I used to fear. I guess I didn’t feel any of that any more. When I pressed my hands against his body in the warehouse and felt his blood, warm and sticky, on my fingers, he became something else to me … human, breakable.

‘So … nice place you got here …’ I came to stand beside him. We faced the wall and I read the plaque directly in front of us.

GIANLUCA FALCONE
DECEMBER 7TH, 1923 – MARCH 20TH, 1995
CXIII

‘Your namesake,’ I said.

‘My grandfather.’

‘He died on the day you were born?’

He turned to look at me. ‘Creepy much?’

‘It’s written on your knife!’

‘OK, stalker. Relax.’

‘You are so incredibly annoying.’

He shrugged. ‘So I’m told.’

‘You should come off that pedestal every now and then.’

He grimaced. ‘But I like my pedestal. I can see everything from up here.’

‘I bet the view’s even nicer from your ivory tower.’

‘It is,’ he said, solemnly. ‘I’d invite you up some time but it’s only for really intelligent people who have a great sense of humour.’

‘Then you must be squatting.’ I turned back to the plaque, renewed curiosity flickering in my mind. ‘Did your grandfather get to see you?’ I asked. ‘Before he died that day?’