Malavita (2 page)

nocciolato
(noh choh LAH toe) – hazelnuts and chocolate

nonna
(NOHN nah),
nonno
(NOHN noh) – grandmother, grandfather

padrino
(pah DREE noh) – godfather

papà
(pah PAH) – dad

passeggiata
(pah sayj JAH tah) – evening stroll; a tradition throughout Italy

per favore
(PAIR fah VOR ay) – please

perfetto
(pair FEHT toe) – perfect

polizia
(poh leet TZEE ah) – Italian police

porco Dio
(POR koh DEE oh) – literally “pig God;”
very
vulgar religious curse

porca vacca
(POR kah VAH kah) – literally “pig cow”; means “shit” or “damn”

prego
(PRAY go) – welcome

principe
(prin chee PAY),
principessa
(prin chee PESS ah) – prince, princess

salute
(sah LOO tay) – to your health; cheers!

scusa
(SKOOZ ah);
scusi
(SKOOZ ee) – excuse me (informal; formal)

sì
(cee) – yes

signore
,
signora
(seen YOR ay, seen YOR ah) – sir, madam; the “e” is dropped from
signore
when used with a last name

stronzo
(STRON tzoh) – shit, turd, bastard

troia
(TROY ah) – slut

troppo
(TROHP poh) – too much

vaffanculo
(vahf fahn COO loh) – go fuck yourself

zia
(TZEE ah),
zio
(TZEE oh) – aunt, uncle

1982

Cernobbio, Lake Como, Italy

The phone call, when it came, shattered Enrico Lucchesi’s world. His mother, his brothers, all dead. Gunned down in the street by order of Carlo Andretti,
capo
of the Andretti family.

He still couldn’t believe it was only him and Papà left. Enrico couldn’t cry, couldn’t speak past the
bocce
ball lodged in his throat. All he could do was stare dry-eyed at his father, who’d done nothing for the last ten minutes but sob, great shuddering wails that shook Enrico to the core. His father never cried. He’d always told his sons a
capo
had to be stronger, braver, tougher than other men.

But here he was, the great Rinaldo Lucchesi, weeping as if he’d never stop.

Enrico finally found his voice. “Papà,” he croaked, reaching across the kitchen table for his father’s hand. When there was no answer, he tried again. “Papà.”

The slight rebuke in his tone—after all, how many times had his father berated Enrico for softness?—caused his father to look up, to notice him at last. Papà took a shaky breath and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief he always carried. He ignored the hand Enrico had stretched toward him, and Enrico pulled it back, all the way to his lap.

In the wake of those sobs, the kitchen seemed deadly quiet, filled only with the sounds of their breathing. His, his father’s, and Dario’s. Enrico glanced at the Andretti boy, who’d sat mute and wide-eyed this entire time.

That glance seemed to remind his father of Dario’s presence, and a murderous glint came into his eyes. He snatched the boy out of his chair, scattering their playing cards to the floor. Dario let out a yelp of surprise. “
Per favore
, it’s not my fault!”

For the past three days, ever since he’d taken Dario hostage in an effort to get Carlo Andretti to negotiate, to end the feud between their families, Papà had insisted on treating Dario as a guest. A guest who couldn’t leave the house, but a guest nevertheless. Because that’s how civilized men handled things. With honor, with respect.

All that courtesy seemed forgotten now as his father wrestled Dario to the butcher block in the corner and mashed Dario’s slender body against the counter. When he pinned the boy’s arm to the cutting board, bile rose in Enrico’s throat. Dario was only fourteen, tall and gangly, all bones. He was no match for Rinaldo Lucchesi, a bull of a man in his prime.

Enrico was no match for him either, but he had to try. He sprang from his chair, his eyes glued to Dario’s wrist, thin as kindling under his father’s meaty hand. Papà grabbed the cleaver from the knife block and swung it up in the air. Enrico grabbed his father’s arm at the top of its downward arc and yanked it back.

Gritting his teeth, Enrico strained to stop his father.
Dio
, Papà seemed stronger than that marlin Enrico had hooked two years ago on a sport-fishing trip. He’d been Dario’s age then, too weak to hold out against the enormously powerful fish for long, but he’d put on muscle since. Not enough though. He was still only sixteen, and his father had to outweigh him by close to seventy pounds.

They seemed to struggle forever, his father grunting curses under his breath, Dario’s thin reedy voice whimpering “
per favore, per favore
” in the background.

At last his father said something intelligible, his voice a rusty rasp. “I am your
capo
. Do not interfere.”

“You always said we aren’t savages.”

“Savagery is all Carlo Andretti understands!”

Papà gave him a hard shove, weakening Enrico’s hold. Catching a whiff of his father’s cologne, Enrico flashed back to a time when his father had carried him up to bed as a boy, cradling him in his arms. Somehow he had to reach that part of his father. Somehow he had to make him see reason.

Enrico’s lungs burned and his arms shook, his father’s muscles hard as granite underneath his hands. “I want Don Andretti dead too. But crippling Dario isn’t going to bring Mamma and Primo and Mario back.”

His father let out an inarticulate cry of rage and stilled, no longer fighting. “I must do something. I must show Carlo I can hurt him.”

“Not the whole hand. The Lucchesis aren’t cruel. You always say that.”

“The little finger then.”

Enrico swallowed against the acid surging at the back of his tongue. Now that Primo was dead, everything had changed. Someday, when he became
capo
, he’d have to make harder decisions than this. Decisions that meant life or death. Decisions he’d never wanted to make, had never pictured himself making. But Carlo Andretti had killed his brothers, had taken any other future away from him.

He could no longer think like a boy, act like a boy. He had to be a man now.

Enrico nodded and released his father’s arm, then stepped away and closed his eyes. He tried not to hear the thunk as the cleaver bit into bone and wood, tried not to hear Dario’s cries of pain. Tried hard to think of what he’d done as mercy.

1984, two years later

London, England

Enrico Lucchesi left his infant son howling in his sobbing mother’s arms. Because he had to. Because it was his duty. Because he was engaged to marry another.

Antonella Andretti. Carlo Andretti’s daughter. A girl he barely knew.

He took one last look at Nico and Veronica. “Rico, don’t go!” she called, following him onto the path that led to the gate of the small home he’d paid for, the only thing he’d been able to leave her, aside from a monthly check.

He couldn’t marry her. He couldn’t raise his son. He couldn’t do anything but return to Italy and his fate.

Veronica ran up behind him, her bare feet slapping on the paving stones, Nico letting out another wail. “Rico, please,” she sobbed. “Please.”

His throat tight, Enrico turned back to her, waving at the waiting driver and holding up a finger to tell the man he would be a while.

Veronica looked like her world was ending, and it was all his fault. He never should’ve gotten involved with her, no matter how lonely he’d been. Not when he knew he was already promised to someone else. Not when he wasn’t free. He’d just wanted
something
for himself. Something—someone—who was
his
choice. At least for a while. But it had all been a horrible mistake. Except for Nico.

Reaching up, he brushed away the blonde strands that had fallen across Veronica’s green eyes. Eyes flooded with tears, all because of him. “I am sorry,
cara
. I must.”

Her face crumpled. “You can’t leave us. What about Nico?”

His fingers drifted across her cheek. Leaving them was going to kill him. “He has you. And I will be back. To visit.”

She shook her head, her voice low, urgent. “You can’t marry her. Not when you love me.”

The lump in his throat grew. “I told you,
cara
. I have no choice.”

“I don’t understand. How can your father make you marry this girl? You’re eighteen. You’re a man. You can make your own choices.”

He shook his head. She’d never understand. Even if he explained who he really was—that the Enrico Franchetti she knew was a fiction—she’d never understand the life he led, the rules he lived under. The rules of the ’Ndrangheta, the Honored Society. The Calabrian Mafia. They’d considered him a man for two years now. Ever since he’d taken the vows and become the one thing he’d sworn he’d never become: a man of honor. One of
them
. A Mafioso.

But with Primo and Mario dead, he’d had no choice. His father needed him.

And if Enrico didn’t marry Antonella Andretti in four weeks, he and his father would be dead shortly after. Carlo Andretti would ensure it.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Veronica’s forehead, then both of her cheeks. “I’ll be back as often as I can.”

She grabbed his collar with her free hand and rose up on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to his, the kiss desperate, urgent. He didn’t return it. Instead, he gently tugged her hand from his shirt. “Veronica, that is over between us.”

Anger erupted over her face, and she punched him in the chest. “Go then! Go back to Italy and leave me. Leave your
son
.” She held Nico up so he could take one last look.

Nico was fourteen months old now, his green eyes bright, his chestnut hair curling around his plump cheeks. He waved a chubby fist at Enrico. “Papà,” Nico burbled, and tears pricked Enrico’s eyes. He kissed his son’s fist, kissed his cheeks, and let him go.

Veronica snatched their son to her chest and glared at him, her pale cheeks flooding with color. “You go, Enrico Franchetti. You go, and don’t darken my door again.”

“I will be back, Veronica.” He said the words wearily. At first he’d loved her volatility, her fire. But there was a frantic, histrionic edge to it that had worn thin over time. She’d changed so much from when they’d first met. Had he really known her at all, or had he been too young to see her clearly? Maybe with him gone for a while, she’d calm down, relax. Find someone new.

Though the thought of another man raising his son made his gut twist. Nico was his.
His
son.
His
child.

But Nico was safe here. He’d grow up far away from the ’Ndrangheta. And if Enrico was careful, Nico would never know that world, would never have to fear for his life. Would never know a man like Carlo Andretti.

Carlo Andretti. The one man Enrico desperately wanted to kill.

“You can’t leave me like this, Rico,” Veronica sobbed. “You can’t.”

“I do not want to.” He raised a hand to touch her cheek, to touch Nico again.

“You have to do something. You have to come back.”

He hated seeing her like this. Hated the desperate look in her eyes, hated the quaver in her voice. He’d done this to her with his omissions, his wishful thinking. He owed her and Nico something more. “I will try. Perhaps there is a way out of this marriage.”

Her mouth curved into a grateful smile, and his stomach contracted into a ball. Had he just lied to her again?

He sincerely hoped not.

There had to be a way to win his freedom. There had to be a way to keep his son.

Two days later

Blevio, Lake Como, Italy

Since returning home, Enrico had dreaded this moment. He turned to his father as the driver pulled onto the road that led to the Andretti estate. Papà looked drawn, pale. Thin. The sight made Enrico burn. Carlo Andretti had ruined the man Enrico had always admired. “Why are we doing this? All he wants is to rub our noses in shit. Like his damn dogs.”

“Rico, control yourself. Don’t let him rile you.”

Enrico’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “Don’t let him
rile
me? After what he’s done? After Mamma and Primo and Mario? After forcing me to leave—”

Rinaldo raised a finger for silence. “We are the only ones who know about that.”

Enrico flicked his eyes at the driver and his father’s bodyguard, Livio, in the front seat.

“You don’t trust them?” he whispered.

Rinaldo leaned closer. “I do. But men can’t speak of what they don’t know. Yes?”

His father was right. The fewer people who knew, the better. If Carlo Andretti ever learned of Nico’s existence, the boy would be dead, and Enrico and Rinaldo along with him.