Page 2 of From Italy With Love

It could also start a war.

“You want me to leverage the Russians as a threat against him?” I spoke tentatively.

“I want you to do whatever it takes to get the deal done.” Giovanni’s eyes were hard. “If that means threatening him, threaten him. If it means flattering him, flatter him. I don’t give a damn how you do it, Sal. Just come back with access to their ports.”

I felt the weight of it settle on my shoulders. The same weight I had been carrying since I was sixteen years old, since our father had sat me down and explained what it meant to be the second son. “Your job is to protect Giovanni, Salvatore. Your job is to do what needs to be done so Giovanni doesn’t have to. Your job is to be the knife in the dark while Giovanni faces the light.”

I had accepted it then.

I accepted it now.

“What about O’Malley?” I asked. “Kelley will want to clear it with his brother-in-law.”

“Let him. Braesal O’Malley is a pragmatist. If Kelley brings him a deal that makes the Irish money and doesn’t cost them anything, he’ll take it.” Giovanni paused. “But don’t trust either of them. The Irish are sentimental and stupid, and that makes them dangerous. They will smile at you, pour you a drink, then put a bullet in your head the moment you turn your back.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Careful isn’t enough.” Giovanni moved closer, and I could smell the coffee on his breath. I could see the faint scar above his left eyebrow from a fight when we were kids. “You’re walking into enemy territory. You are a Chicago Italian in New York, meeting with an Irish family that has every reason to hate us. You trust no one. You watch everyone. You assume every word out of Kelley’s mouth is a lie, and you plan accordingly.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Giovanni’s hand shot out, gripping my shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Because if something happens to you, if Kelley makes an example or the Russians get wind of this deal and decide to send a message, I won’t be there to protect you. You will be on your own out there.”

I met my brother’s eyes. “I know.”

Giovanni held my gaze for a long moment, then released me. “Good. Then get it done.”

I turned to leave, but Giovanni’s voice stopped me at the door.

“Sal.”

I looked back.

“Come home,” Giovanni said quietly. “Whatever happens, you come home.”

I nodded once, then walked out of the office, out of the building, into the cold Chicago morning.

I had a plane to catch.

The Kelley house was in Riverdale, a neighborhood in the Bronx where old money pretended it wasn’t sitting on top of blood money.

I had wanted to meet at a restaurant. Neutral ground. Somewhere public where both of us would have to behave like civilized men instead of the animals we were. But Kelley had insisted on his home, and I had agreed because refusing would have signaled weakness.

Now, standing outside the imposing brownstone, I understood exactly what Kelley had done.

Home field advantage.

My cousin, Marco, a kid from Cicero, who had proven himself reliable, waited by the car, eyes scanning the street. I had instructed him to keep the engine running and to leave if I wasn’t out in two hours. Marco nodded, understanding what wasn’t being said: If I’m not out in two hours, I’m not coming out.

I walked up the steps, cataloguing everything. The first and second floors had their lights on. Curtains were drawn on the ground floor, open on the second. A camera above the front door, another at the corner of the house. Security system, likely armed.

I rang the doorbell.

The man who answered was six-three, two-fifty, with a neck like a tree trunk and a shoulder holster under his jacket. Irish muscle. Ex-military, loyal, and stupid enough to follow orders without asking questions.

“Valentinetti?” the man asked.

“That’s right.”