Phantom

September 12, 1944

The fourth time Angelo’s fist flies into the side of my face, I dig my blunt nails into my palms, just barely restraining myself from returning the favor.

Alfonso would shoot me dead before I could make it halfway, so I accept the hit.

Blood fills my mouth, and I’m forced to swallow it down rather than spit it on the floor at Angelo’s feet. If I’m not already on the verge of eating a bullet, that would certainly have me biting one down.

“You betrayed my trust!” Angelo seethes, snarling in my bruised face. “You interfered with my order, and now the swine owes me even more money!”

I’ve failed my boss.

And it was intentional.

Allowing Paulie to take Genevieve hostage was impossible. The thought of another man laying hands on her had me seeing red. And I know that I would’ve put Paulie down before allowing him to set one goddamn foot in her house.

And how would she have reacted if he did break into her home, intent on kidnapping her? Would she have held a knife to his throat like she did to mine?

I think I’d kill Paulie for that alone—for having the privilege of experiencing Genevieve in such a way. When she held that knife to me, all I could think about was letting her slice through me if it meant getting closer to her.

I wanted to hurt her, all right, but her screams would have been in ecstasy rather than pain.

All I want that woman to do is love me like I love her.

I want it to be all-consuming. To be so goddamn deep, a lobotomy couldn’t even carve me out of her head.

“This is your fault,” Angelo hisses, stabbing a finger into my chest.

“Yes, boss,” I agree, working to keep my tone even. It takes a special type of man to take a hit without retaliating. I’ve worked hard to become that type, but I will gladly unravel the moment he threatens Genevieve.

“If you were anyone else, Ronnie, anyone else, you’d be wearin’ cement shoes right now.” The pain in his stare hurts. Angelo has been my family longer than my own was. Our bond is thicker than blood, and I loathe putting the strain of my disobedience on our relationship. However, Genevieve doesn’t deserve to get mixed up in her husband’s business, and I can’t find it in myself to regret my actions.

“And if she were anyone else, she’d be here,” I respond quietly. Angelo’s expression slackens, shock glimmering in his dark eyes. As long as we’ve known each other, Angelo has never seen me smitten with anyone. I’ve entertained many women, but never long enough to keep them in my bed for more than a night.

He scoffs, then turns away from me and links his hands behind his back. Mona Lisa stares at me with disapproval as he paces before me. Alfonso sits in his usual spot in the chair across from his brother’s desk, keeping quiet as he stares at us. He’s contemplative as smoke billows from his mouth, his cigar nearly depleted.

“Bring John in,” Angelo barks aloud.

Two other lackeys, Roger and Samuel, are standing behind me, their chins high, faces slack, always on standby for instruction.

One of them shuffles behind me. There’s a click of the office door and silence for a few strained beats before it swings open again. I peer over my shoulder as Roger drags a gagged John into the middle of the room and drops him unceremoniously at Angelo’s feet.

Muffled pleas arise from behind the gag in John’s mouth, which are promptly ignored. Instead, Angelo pulls out his Colt from the back of his trousers and presses the barrel to John’s forehead.

John shakes his head profusely, his indecipherable begging growing louder. Angelo snarls while sobs shake John’s shoulders.

Truthfully, the sight brings me such immense joy, I’m nearly delirious from it. Since the moment Genevieve confessed what he did to her, I’ve been picturing all the ways I’d slowly torture him to death. Make him cry and beg for mercy. Make him suffer in unimaginable ways. Even worse, I can’t look at him without imagining the act itself, and a rage unlike anything I’ve felt before fills me every time.

My hands tremble with the need to whip out my gun and shoot him myself. I clench my fists, focusing on keeping still.

“Your life for over sixteen thousand dollars. Something tells me it’s not worth that much, but I’ll make do,” Angelo spits.

Just as he thumbs back the hammer of the revolver, a melodic voice whispers in my ear.

Promise me you will never play a hand in his death.

I close my eyes, frustration building in my chest. His finger is seconds from pulling the trigger, and guilt unfurls in the pit of my stomach as Genevieve’s pleas circulate in my mind.

Even if not for me, please do it for Sera.

Genevieve will be devastated if I stand by and do nothing while Angelo pulls that trigger.

Their daughter will be devastated.

And what kind of man am I to make her a promise just to allow it to be broken?

“Boss,” I interject, stepping forward, the word tasting like acid on my tongue. The answering look from Angelo could melt the ice caps, but I don’t back down.

It’s in my best interest to allow John to be shot dead. It would relieve Genevieve of her marriage to her abuser, and I could have her to myself. She would be mine and only mine.

However, my mother didn’t raise a monster through what little parenting she offered after my father’s passing. Killing a young girl’s father for my own selfishness isn’t a sin I’ll allow myself, especially knowing that it would break Genevieve’s heart. And while it is not me pulling the trigger, that doesn’t remove the blood from my hands.

“He has other uses. Uses that would prove him to be valuable, after all,” I say evenly.

“You have two seconds, otherwise I’m firing two bullets tonight.”

A threat that I’ve heard countless times when pulling Angelo off the edge. I should be fearful for my life. I’ve seen Angelo turn his gun on a made man for less.

However, I’m his consigliere for a reason, and it’s typically because of my ability to rein him in from making irrational decisions at every turn. Most days, I succeed.

Other days—I don’t.

“He’s an accountant,” I explain. “Despite his terrible poker face, he is exceptional with numbers. It’s a wonder he didn’t count cards.”

John spits out a few words that sound like I’m no cheat.

Angelo must pick up on it, too, because he casts an unreadable look his way. I’ve piqued his interest, though, so I forge on.

“If his life isn’t worth his debt, let his hard work be,” I continue. “He can work for free until it’s paid off. He has the potential to become a big earner for us.”

Angelo’s a smart businessman, but he’s a hothead, and at this moment, all his statues are facing away. Which means I can’t trust him to think rationally or be reasonable.

“Are you asking me to give him a pass, Ronnie? You vouchin’ for him?”

I grit my teeth. For Genevieve, I’ll do anything. Even put my life on the line for her abusive husband.

“Yes, boss.”

He studies me closely before turning his focus to John. He sucks his teeth, seeming to contemplate my offer. All the while, my heart thuds heavily. A fraction of a second is all it will take for him to end John’s life, and admittedly, I would celebrate his death.

I’ve done all I could to save his life.

Now, his consequences are his own.

Sweat pours down John’s reddened face, and he stares up at Angelo with a fear that only God can put into him. His pleas are silent, but they are mighty because a moment later, Angelo lifts his gun to the ceiling, signaling his acceptance of my suggestion.

His stare stays locked onto John, though he addresses me first. “All right, Ronnie, we’ll try it your way. But this deal comes with conditions.” After a beat, he continues, holding John’s widened stare. “You will work off not only your debt but also the interest you have accrued.”

John’s words are muffled, though it’s clear enough to catch what he says: What interest?

Angelo’s subsequent grin is smarmy, and he no longer stares at John with contempt but rather hope for an opportunity that may make him far more money than John has seen in his lifetime.

“My wrath is your interest. You will take the omertà and work for me until you become a problem.” He turns away from John, the corners of his lips stretching wider as he rounds his desk and takes a seat, adopting a casual stance as he leans back into his chair.

“Believe me, John. You don’t want to become a problem.”

In other words, John is going to become a made man whether he likes it or not.

And the only way out of this life is through death.

September 16, 1944

Ever since I told Daisy about John, she has been sending letters more frequently throughout the months. She’s damn near interrogating me about John, and I’ve told her everything. How his gambling habits haven’t waned. His paychecks go entirely to catching us up on bills, and then we fall behind again. Left with little money for eating or buying ourselves basic necessities.

I also told her about that awful June night. Her response was written so angrily into the page that her pen tore through it in several spots. Some of her words were unintelligible, but I got the gist.

She was seething mad, and begged me to find a lawyer.

But what lawyer would see it as anything other than a marital duty? As John’s wife, my body is his.

Even so, I couldn’t bear to rip Sera away from her father.

She loves him dearly, and my husband treats her like royalty.

Once I responded with a letter explaining this, she understood my position, though she didn’t shy away from expressing her distaste for my husband.

In the end, it does not matter that I am the receiver of all John’s mistakes.

Because at least I have Ronaldo.

Wherever he is.