Unforgotten (39 page)
Bolstered by the memory, Antonia said, “I’m r … eady.”
“Good.” Lance flipped the pages, eager, she knew, to be done with it, now that Rese was back in Sonoma. She knew the ache of absence. She wouldn’t keep him. He was right to find his own way, to follow his heart. He’d lived too much for other people and not enough for himself.
“The Bureau made our hasty wedding possible without papers, verifying for the judge my identity and the necessity of our union. They may have thought you would testify, or at least realized we owed you protection. For my part, the role became real. Hadn’t planned on that, my girl. You had a way of turning the tables, and how.”
There now. That was Marco. A smile played on her lips.
“Though I left you alone too often and too long, you were never far from my heart. It made everything I did more perilous, for now I had something to lose. With each child the burden grew, yet I knew I was doing what I had to, what I was born to. God had made me for it. To crush the violence, the decadence. To give my children a better life, and you a safer home.
“For that I took whatever assignment I was given. I won’t tell you all the cases I handled, but the one that matters happened before I went to Sonoma. It followed me there and caused it all, though I didn’t know.”
————
Lance paused, reread the sentence to make sure. It fit with the letter from Sybil that what went wrong in Sonoma started with Nonno Marco, not Vittorio or Arthur Jackson. Someone had gone to Jackson, someone who sold his services as a hit man.
“And now it comes to why I am telling you what I’ve kept silent our whole life together.”
Lance looked at Nonna, who had grown frighteningly still. He would burst if they had to stop, but he’d stop if she needed to. She gave him a slow blink of assent.
“I’d blamed myself for Vittorio’s death, but only tactically, for not getting there in time once I realized the trap was set. It puzzled me that Jackson had seen through us, and I could only think that Vittorio had slipped. But it wasn’t Vittorio.”
She closed her eyes, and pain creased her brow. He went on.
“One of my first assignments was to infiltrate the fledgling New York Camorra.”
His breath escaped. He and Pop had guessed right.
“Being a
paesano
and, in fact, related to the family, I was an obvious candidate to penetrate the operation. I had no record to speak of that Don Agosto might discover. I was young enough to look hungry, bold enough to look useful. He took me on and put me to work accepting payoffs. You’ll recall the incident with my two-legged dog.”
He’d heard stories of the two-legged dog, but not in connection to any covert assignments.
“Not everyone appreciated the protection those payoffs bought them, and I took the brunt of their anger. But I was establishing myself. For two years I worked in the organization, gaining trust and responsibility, biding my time. I communicated what I had to, but kept most of what I saw and learned to myself. I trusted no one else, knowing we would have one chance only with someone like Agosto Borsellino.”
Lance read how his nonno had taken down the Camorra don, sending him to prison, but that in prison the man had been killed by the rival Sicilians who’d been waiting their chance at the Camorra boss who’d invaded their territory. It was right out of the history books, or the movies.
“Bitter over his father’s murder, Don Agosto’s son Carlo followed me to Sonoma. He … killed your papa, but it was me he wanted.”
He looked up, certain Nonna would make him stop. Her eyes had closed; her brow pinched in. But she said nothing, so he continued.
“You were still Jackson’s target; I had no doubt of that. But I didn’t know until I shot Carlo in the gully that it was my actions, not Vittorio’s, that had brought us down. More than ever it was my duty to protect you. You were so brave, so determined, and as God is my witness, I’d fallen in love with you. But, darling Antonia, I forgot the power of vendetta.”
Vendetta. Lance had joked about it, teased Rese with the idea. Now he realized it was no joke.
Nonna said, “Read.”
“Don Agosto’s second son, Paolo, had disappeared following a highly publicized murder. That bought me a window of time to plan my strategy before his brother’s death would bring him out of hiding. Though I knew him to be ruthless, I prayed other factors would work in my favor.
“And God was faithful. Paolo Borsellino had to battle for control when he returned. He had no time to take up a failed vendetta with his own power at stake. Don Agosto had not favored his second son, and revenge did not burn in Paolo as it had in Carlo.
“When I suggested a truce, he realized the advantage. I would not reveal what I knew of him or his dealings to the Bureau, and he would not threaten me or my family. It was in both our interests to keep our pact, and I was convinced he would. It rankled to see him establish his power, to know his means, but I did my job elsewhere, to the best of my ability.
“He raised his family, and I raised mine, children and grandchildren. The vendetta might have been buried forever—but for Don Paolo’s arrest and imprisonment. Three months ago he was convicted and incarcerated. I had no part in it, though he must believe otherwise. Or perhaps it has simply lain too long between us. Vendetta has a power of its own. Once begun, it must be satisfied.”
Lance’s throat went dry. No … He shot a look at Nonna, whose gaze was fiercely set.
“Read …” she breathed.
“I’ve been away from the Bureau so long, not even a cop for years. I had almost forgotten how it was to sleep with half my mind awake for any sound, any shift in the air. I’m an old man. I could die tomorrow. My thoughts are only for you.
“I kept my work secret, because to reveal any part would have opened your mind to questions, to what had really happened in Sonoma. I could not face your hurt. But when the phone call came this morning, I knew I’d been wrong to keep it from you.”
Phone call? What phone call?
“How will you understand now, what I have to do?”
His throat closed. Nonno couldn’t be saying what it seemed. “L … ance.” Nonna touched his arm.
“Antonia, those I love live under one roof, and as the caller explained, what a tragedy it would be if something destroyed that building and all of you within. I value nothing so much as the family I’d thought never to have until a promise opened my eyes. A family that will continue when I’m gone. So you see, cara, I have one final role to play.”
Her hand seized hold. He wanted to stop, but her grip compelled him.
“I’ve spent my life recognizing the evil that kills the innocent. I have imitated and opposed it. Today I go to meet it. For nothing stops evil except personal sacrifice. Know, dearest, that my time with you has been more than I ever expected.
La mia vita ed il mio amore
.”
Nonna cried out, meeting his eyes in an agony of realization. She hadn’t seen it coming. Neither of them had. Nonno Marco’s death was no accident. The knowledge sank into his bowels.
An evil that kills the innocent
. From the grave Nonno had named it:
Vendetta
.
What cruel ache in spleen and bone.
What breaking heart that weeps alone.
N
onno Quillan stays beside Nonna Carina until they put her body into the ground, his wrenching vigil a testament to his love. In my own childish grief I can hardly stand to see it. If that is love, how can anyone bear it?
Nonno takes my hand. “Nothing precious comes cheaply, Antonia. You must count the cost and choose… .”
Count and choose… .
But how could she count what she didn’t know? How could she choose when God wasn’t just. He wasn’t … just. Wasn’t … She spiraled down.
Marco
. She hadn’t known; how could she know?
Oh, Marco …
Killed like Papa. Killed. The weight of it crushed the breath from her lungs, the life from her spirit.
She had no strength for anger. No strength for anything. She stared at the wall, wishing she could climb back into the womb … or the tomb.
Marco …
Leery of God, she had put her trust in flesh, and he had sacrificed it on his altar of duty. For her, yes, and their children’s children. Oh, the pain, the debt.
Count the cost
. Had Marco counted?
Deeper now, where it didn’t hurt. No, even there pain found her. Where could she hide? The cost was too high. Too high.
————
“Nonna?” After crying out, she had withdrawn into a place he couldn’t penetrate. It looked different from a stroke, but what did he know? “Nonna, talk to me!” No response. “Nonna.” Panic choked him. She had wanted this kept between them, but it was way past that now. He grabbed the letter and went downstairs.
At the door, Momma saw his alarm and matched it. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Go check on Nonna. She might need a doctor.”
Momma slapped her cheeks.
“Gesu`, Maria, e Giuseppe.”
“I gotta see Pop.”
She all but shoved him in where Pop sat watching TV. “Turn it off. Lance has something to say.” Then she rushed out.
Pop thumbed the TV off with the remote and waited.
He hadn’t thought until Pop looked up how it would be to tell him Nonno was murdered. Their one conversation hardly compared to the weeks Lance had searched piece by piece into the past, only now learning it all. And he hadn’t guessed, hadn’t known how it would hurt. How would Pop take it cold?
“You gonna talk or what?”
“Pop …”
But then Bobby and Monica barged in and Lucy and Lou with his cousin Martin from Jersey, all of them yammering, “What’s happened? What’s the fuss?” Momma must have spread the alarm.
Lance slipped the letter behind him, unwilling to toss its news to the wind. “Nonna’s not doing too well.” And it was more than he should have expected to talk it out alone with Pop.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Is it a stroke?”
“Did someone call an ambulance?”
Pop raised his hands. “Momma’s with her. Now everybody get out.” He fixed a glance on Lance that rooted him to the floor, and when the room had cleared, it seemed to echo around them.
Lance wished he hadn’t left Nonna’s side. But Momma would take care of her, and Pop had a right to know. Though Nonna hadn’t seen it that way, as Marco’s only son, shouldn’t he decide what to do?
He jutted his chin. “Whatchu got?”
Lance handed him the letter. “From Nonno. He left it for Nonna in a safe deposit box, only, you know how she is with banks; she never picked it up unto now.”
Pop didn’t seem sure what to do with it. Lance told him, “You need to know what it says.” He’d already told him the Sonoma part of the story, but as Pop perused the first paragraphs, Lance said, “Nonno was murdered.”
His father’s jaw dropped as he looked up. “Whatchu talkin’ about?”
“It’s all in the letter. He’s telling Nonna good-bye.” He’d gone to meet the threat with intention and finality.
Pop frowned back down at the pages he held.
Lance forked his fingers into his hair. “It’s the whole story, what I told you and more. Marco was a Fed and, Pop, it wasn’t an accident.”
His father’s throat worked as he read through the first page, then the next and the next. Lance dropped to the footstool. Only then did it start to sink in. Nonno murdered. An old man. A grandpa. Why? His spine quivered as the hurt and confusion converted to anger.
Nonno, Vittorio, Quillan—Tony. It was too much. How could anyone take it sitting down? He clenched his hands, willing Pop through the pages, even though each paragraph brought him closer to the end, to the place of no return.
His throat tightened when Pop swiped a knuckle under his eye. Lance hadn’t seen him cry since Tony. He should have prepared him somehow, not sprung it. He chewed his lip. Maybe he could have done it better, but however it came out, the message was the same. Nonno had sacrificed himself for them.
“What do we do?” Lance almost whispered.
Pop had reached the end but stared at the pages still, his jaw clenching and releasing. “Do?”
“About this.” Lance slapped the pages with the back of his fingers.
“Nothing.” Pop’s voice grated.
“Pop, it’s … true; it’s gotta be. Nonno wouldn’t make it up, wouldn’t leave it for Nonna to read if it wasn’t all true. He locked it in a safe deposit box. It’s not a hoax.”
Pop’s head pivoted side to side. Lance could only imagine the emotions assaulting him. He’d lost his son to violence. Now Nonno too.
“Pop.”
“Leave it alone.” His voice was a graveyard, full of dead hopes.
That wasn’t what he’d expected. Anger. Grief. Not this defeatist … “You know I can’t.” The one thing he couldn’t do was leave it alone. Something was required.
“What do you think you can do? Change this?” Pop clenched the pages. “You think you can undo what happened twenty-two years ago?”
Lance shook his head. How had it come back to him? Wouldn’t Pop… ? Shouldn’t he… ? “Pop, I …”
Pop looked up, stark pain in his eyes. “Don’t try to play the hero.
You’re not Tony.”
He took it like a sucker punch. He’d let his guard down, and it caught him where it hurt.
“You’re not Tony.”
————
Rese walked out to the garden Lance had made beautiful, plants blooming and verdant along the flagstone paths, but not overflowing as they’d been. The raised beds were aromatic with herbs he no doubt knew, though she simply appreciated the effect. The people coming this evening would too.
Michelle had planned to hold the potluck there before she and Star came back unexpectedly. In spite of Star’s situation, she could hardly say no when Michelle had kept Baxter and watched out for the inn the whole time they were gone. But, even after two weeks with Lance’s family, facing a fresh horde was intimidating.
She could hide upstairs with Star, but … that was weak. Lance would be disappointed. If he were here he’d provoke her into attending. She dropped her chin and smiled.
She had been insulated, first by Mom’s antagonizing the neighbors, then living alone with Dad, working with the same handful of guys every day. She had dealt with homeowners and subcontractors, but not en masse. In school she had never roved with bands of girls through the halls, no slumber parties. She’d become a self-sufficient machine—there when Star needed her, but needing no one in return.