The Promise Read online

  “Your sister is not Ninette,” Ben bit out.

  “Who lives with one brother and then hooks up with the other one?” she retorted, shaking her head. “No one does that.”

  “Vinnie died seven years ago.”

  “He’s still your brother.”

  “He quit bein’ my brother when he joined the mob.”

  At that, she snapped her mouth shut.

  Yeah.

  She got him.

  “Life sucks, Cat, for everyone, not just you,” he told her something she should know. “Shit happens and you make decisions that can make it suck even more. From what you’re sayin’, I see you took a look at your life and decided to make good changes. But what you’re doin’, slammin’ the door on Frankie, means you won’t see she’s doin’ the same thing. Makin’ good changes to her life. And you didn’t ask, but what she did when she got shot was crazy. Crazy-stupid and crazy-brave. She helped save a woman’s life. You got a screw loose if you’d turn your back on a woman who’d take a bullet to do somethin’ like that. But I know it’s loose ’cause she’s had your back your entire life. Took you as you came, made no judgments when you were three steps away from bein’ a full-blown drunk, a mean one half the time, and she never shut the door in your face.”

  He saw by her expression that he’d scored with that one, but he still took a step back, shaking his head and lifting, then dropping his hands.

  “That’s your decision; it’s your life. I came by, we had our words. I leave, you continue your life. I’m happy for you. You’re tryin’ to make a good one for the family you wanna build. But that doesn’t mean what you’re sayin’ isn’t complete bullshit. The thing is, you sit there knowin’ it. You cast judgment for the decisions Francesca has made in her life, sittin’ there knowin’ you let your sister lie in a hospital bed with a hole in her without showin’ your face and givin’ some love. And still, you did that to her, Frankie calls you because she’s worried about you. What’s that say about her, Cat? And more, you can take this as my good turn to you: what’s it say about you?”

  He knew he scored another point when the red went out of her face and it got pale.

  He also didn’t give a fuck. He was done.

  “Dinner’s at seven,” he ground out. “You’re there, you’re welcome. You’re not, I do not share blood with you so I do not have to put up with your shit. You don’t show, Frankie won’t cut ties. But seein’ as I’m in love with her and she’ll be the mother of my kids one day, you’ll have to work to get me to let you in our door, because, straight-up, Cat, I don’t need my woman or my kids around that kind of fucked-up shit.”

  He left it at that, turned, and walked out, deciding he wouldn’t share this visit with Frankie. Cat and Art showed the next night, then he’d get the goodness of her gratitude that he went out of his way to get her sister back. If not, she didn’t need to know.

  And anyway, he didn’t need to give more headspace to Cat, seeing as not fun as that visit was, the next one he was going to make he knew was going to be a fuckuva lot worse.

  * * * * *

  Ben looked around the huge-ass house Gina was leading him through, thinking that she’d had the whole fucking place redecorated since the last time he’d been there.

  Since he lost track of when that was, he shouldn’t be surprised. It was more than eight years. It was more like fifteen.

  She now had marble floors. Acres of them.

  Things must be good in the mob business. He’d never be able to give Frankie acres of marble floors. That said, she’d never want them, and if she did, she’d work to get them for herself.

  “It really is nice, you showin’, Benny,” Gina murmured, and he looked at her.

  She held some weight, not much, but she no longer had the slender, built figure she’d had a couple of decades ago. That didn’t mean she wasn’t dressed well, she was. She’d always dressed well. Slightly over-the-top with jewelry and bright colors, but she wasn’t the stereotypical mob wife you saw in the movies.

  But she was beyond middle age and her face didn’t have a line on it that he could see. And she dyed her hair so there wasn’t a strand of gray.

  She took care of herself. Then again, she could. She had the money and she had the time.

  Wouldn’t matter if she didn’t, Sal was devoted to his wife. Doted on her. Never was a time back in the day when they were around where he wasn’t affectionate or didn’t look at her like she jumpstarted the world every morning.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t fuck around. He did. Always. Even now. Word flew through the family, regardless if you didn’t want to hear that shit, and Ben knew Sal had two women on the side, both kept, both thirty years younger than Gina.

  Gina probably knew too and kept her tongue. It was a thing with men like Sal, and the women with them had to put up with it. It was his way to show how big his balls were and that they still worked.

  It was also as whacked as everything else Sal did.

  “It’s good to see you, Gina,” he muttered in order to be nice, even if he didn’t mean it. He liked her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t bring up bad memories.

  She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and he knew she knew he was lying through his teeth by the sad look in her eyes.

  Her husband fucked around on her and did seriously fucked-up shit for a living, which meant every day anything could happen, and that “anything” could include him being incarcerated or assassinated. When you lived a life like that, family was important, and not the kind who were all in danger of the same thing.

  He couldn’t say he didn’t feel for her. She was a good woman. But he couldn’t help her by biting the bullet and giving her the big family that would make the shit in her life less shitty. She’d made her choice.

  She looked forward again and led him out onto a patio with a pool, gazebo, and pool house. There was a huge-ass, ostentatious fountain shooting water into the deep end of the pool. There were pots filled with thriving flowers and greenery all over the place. It looked like it belonged in a resort, not in an affluent Chicago suburb that would much prefer the local mob boss hadn’t bought a house there but no one would say jack for fear they’d find a horse’s head in their bed the next day.

  And like he was at his own personal resort, which he was, Sal Giglia was sitting at a table with an iced drink in front of him, along with a tablet, his phone to his ear.

  He, too, was a good-looking man, a big man, tall, broad. He’d been built back in the day, but now he had a gut. His dark hair had silvered and he’d left it at that, but he did slick it back, even if he was doing that to sit on his patio. He dressed well—designer polos, nice slacks, custom-made Italian loafers. He looked like Tony Soprano with more hair, classic features, and an extra fifteen years.

  When they came out, Sal’s eyes came to Gina and Benny. He then said something in his phone, ended the call, dropped the cell on the table, and stood, face breaking into a huge smile.

  Ben felt his throat prickle and fought back the urge to form his hands into fists or, the better option, turn and walk away.

  “Benny, figlio,” Sal called as they made their way over the expensive pavers to Sal.

  Figlio.

  Asshole.

  “Frankie’s birthday, am I right?” Sal asked, eyes lighting, misunderstanding the situation and thinking Ben getting in there with crazy-beautiful Francesca Concetti meant that either he was thinking with his dick or being led around by it.

  “Not exactly,” Ben replied, his gaze moving to Gina and back to Sal to make his point that what he had to say, Gina shouldn’t be around to hear.

  Sal’s huge smile faded, but only slightly, as he took hold of his woman’s hand, pulled her closer, kissed her cheek, and leaned back to ask, “Get Benny a drink, would you, cara?”

  “Of course,” she replied, smiling up at her husband before turning that smile to Ben. “What can I get you, Benny?”

  He shook his head, searching for words t
hat would take the sting out of his meaning. “Thanks, but I don’t have time for a drink, Gina. Frankie’s comin’ in tonight. After I talk with Sal, I gotta run some more errands so I can’t stay.”

  She nodded understandingly, trying to hide the disappointment and failing miserably. She aimed another smile at her husband, then moved away.

  Sal threw out an arm, inviting, “Sit.”

  Ben didn’t want to sit. He didn’t want to breathe Sal’s air.

  He had no choice.

  So he sat, pulled the shades out of his hair and over his eyes to beat back the sun, and trained his gaze on Sal.

  “Last place I wanna be,” he said quietly.

  At his words, Sal’s mouth got tight. “Do not tell me my Gina let you into our home for you to sit on my goddamned patio and be an asshole to me.”

  “Last place I wanna be ’cause I’m here ‘cause I need you to do somethin’ for Frankie.”

  Sal suddenly went still.

  He was listening.

  Intently.

  And Ben did not get that, why Sal and Gina sunk their claws into Frankie before and after Vinnie died. He could get falling in love with her, he did that himself. And these people understood loyalty. But not the healthy kind, which it seemed they gave Frankie.

  They had two daughters.

  It didn’t make sense.

  But he wasn’t there to make sense of it. He was there to do something three months ago he would have told you he’d put a bullet in his own brain before he did it.

  But there he was.

  “Actually, two things,” Ben went on.

  “You gonna tell me what they are?” Sal asked.

  “Yeah,” Ben answered. “One, we’re havin’ a birthday thing for Frankie tomorrow night at the pizzeria.”

  Sal’s brows shot up.

  “You and Gina aren’t invited.”

  Sal’s brows lowered and he scowled.

  “That is not disrespect,” Ben said low and it was the truth. “Feels like it, but that’s me respectin’ my family and givin’ a good night to my woman. Ma and Pop would not want you there, Frankie would want everyone to have a good time, and knowin’ that they weren’t, it would fuck with her. Last, it would be awkward and I do not want that for Frankie on her birthday. But Frankie will wanna see you so I made reservations at Crickets for a Champagne brunch tomorrow morning,” Ben told him and finished with, “I will not be there.”

  Sal nodded slowly. “And the second thing?”

  “Guy at Frankie’s work got whacked.”

  Sal’s brows shot up again, but Ben didn’t miss that his body also got tight.

  Preparing. Like Benny, he knew Frankie was a magnet for drama.

  “Whacked?” Sal asked.

  “Professional hit, one shot to the head in his home. Nothin’ stolen. Nothin’ even moved. Guy came in, did him, left. He was a doctor who worked on developing drugs for her company. Police have no suspects. Cal’s got a friend who’s a cop in Brownsburg who asked around. Indianapolis Metropolitan PD have no clue why this guy had a hit taken out on him. Nothin’ in his life leads to that kinda retaliation. They’ve been over everything repeatedly. He has a wife, two kids in college, nice house. No gambling. No drug use. Not a big drinker. Kids not fucked up. Wife all good. Plays golf. Belongs to a club. No shit in his past. No shady friends. Not one fuckin’ thing.”

  “And you’re tellin’ me this because…?” Sal prompted.

  “I’m tellin’ you this because Frankie told me the guy bought it, she feels weird about it, and she feels weird about the guy’s boss.”

  “Fuck,” Sal muttered.

  “Yeah,” Benny agreed, knowing Sal again got him. “Her feelin’ weird can die on the vine or it can flourish, and Frankie bein’ Frankie, I’m wantin’ to nip it in the bud before it flourishes.”

  “Tell her to keep out of it,” Sal advised.

  “Sorry, thought you knew Francesca Concetti,” Benny replied, and Sal grinned.

  “Reckless, that one,” he muttered. “And headstrong.”

  “And stubborn and crazy,” Benny added, and Sal’s grin grew into a smile, clearly these being traits Sal admired. The troubling part of that was Ben did too. “Told her that she needed to steer clear. She promised me she’d do that and just do her job. Far’s I know, she’s doin’ that.”

  “And you’re here because you want me to make some inquiries, find out who whacked this guy and why.”

  That was why he was there.

  Asking a favor from Sal.

  Fuck.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Ben confirmed.

  “Consider it done,” Sal replied.

  Fuck.

  “I give, I take,” Sal went on, barely taking a breath before calling the marker.

  Fucking fuck.

  Ben stared at him through his shades and said nothing.

  Sal did.

  “When you two get married, Gina and I are invited.”

  Ben’s back straightened and he leaned toward Sal, starting, “Sal—”

  Sal shook his head, lifted a hand, and dropped it. “Not the reception. We’ll sit in the back of the church. But I’ll wanna see my Frankie happy. I’ll wanna give that to my Gina. And I am not unaware you do not like me much, Benny Bianchi, but I still wanna see you happy. So does Gina. You give that to us, I’ll find out everything there is to know about what’s goin’ on in Indy.”

  “That seems too easy,” Ben noted suspiciously.

  “That’s because what I do in Indy isn’t for you. It’s for Frankie. But she didn’t ask for it, you asked for it, so you pay.”

  He got that and he could pay that marker without too much headache.

  Except one thing.

  “My parents don’t see you,” Benny stated, and Sal’s face went hard.

  “I’m not gonna slink into a church like a snake and Gina’s not doin’ that shit either.”

  “I don’t care how you walk in,” Benny returned. “You just do it so my parents don’t see you.”

  Sal held his eyes before he jerked up his chin.

  Assent.

  They had a deal.

  Christ.

  “Then we’re done,” Ben ended it, and Sal’s face changed in a way Benny did not get, even when he did.

  Sal Giglia didn’t want to be done with Benny. With the Bianchis. With family.

  How the man could think he could hold on to blood when his business was about taking it, Ben had no fucking clue.

  He’d never figure it out and he had another stop to make. Then he had to drop what he was picking up at home before he went to get Frankie from the airport. So he didn’t give that headspace either.

  “We’re done,” Sal released him.

  “Tell Gina I said ’bye,” Ben murmured, rising from his chair, Sal coming with him.

  “Will do,” Sal replied.

  Ben gave him a nod, turned, and started away.

  He stopped when Sal said, “She was with the wrong brother.”

  He turned back, his throat prickling again, and he leveled his shades on the man.

  Sal wasn’t done. “Vinnie was a good man, but not for her. She was made for you. Always knew it.”

  Ben said nothing.

  Sal did.

  “She’ll drive you fuckin’ crazy and you’ll love every minute of it.”

  Ben kept his silence.

  “Happy for you, figlio,” Sal finished quietly.

  Since Vinnie died, Ben had spent nearly zero time with Sal, putting up with him at the hospital the night Frankie got shot only because he had no choice.

  Now, he was reminded why someone like Frankie would hold on to a man like Sal. Away from him, it made no sense.

  But fuck, you got anywhere near, the man was likeable. Always was.

  So maybe he had a piece of the puzzle as to why his brother did the shit he did, and having that piece was a miracle.

  Ben didn’t tell Sal that, mostly because all the other puzzle pieces did not fit.
>
  He only nodded again and got his ass out of there.

  * * * * *

  “Can you explain why you’re gonna be here six days but you got enough luggage to be here for the rest of your life?” Benny bitched as he hauled Francesca’s huge-ass suitcase up the stairs of his back stoop, along with her carry-on.

  “I told you I’d carry them,” Frankie replied. He twisted his neck to give her a look, so she widened her eyes at him and continued, “You wanna be a protective, take-care-of-my-woman, Italian guy, you can’t bitch.”

  She was absolutely right.

  Still, it bought him Frankie with wide eyes being cute, so he was going to bitch.

  He let go of a bag to open the door, asking, “What do you have in these bags anyway?”

  “You gave me no hint as to what you had planned so I had to come prepared,” she answered as he shoved in through the door, hauling her bags in with him.

  “So by ‘prepared’ you mean you came prepared to assault the White House?” he asked.

  “I have clothes and shoes in those bags, not assault rifles,” she shot back.

  “Feels like half a ton of C4,” he muttered.

  “Shut up, Benny,” she returned, but he heard the smile in her voice.

  That made him smile as he kept moving toward the door to the hall.

  Once he hit it, he said, “Shit, babe, forgot to put your Fanta in the fridge. It’s in the den. I’ll take these upstairs. You toss a couple cans in the fridge, and while you’re at it, pop me a beer.”

  “Your den is not a den. It’s a den-shaped dump,” she replied.

  “You gonna pop me a beer or what?” he returned, still smiling.

  “All right,” she murmured, and he heard her purse hit the table.

  He hauled the bags to the foot of the stairs, left them there, and retraced his steps, timing it perfectly to hit the door to the den so he could see Frankie’s hands shoot to her mouth as she shrieked, “Oh my God! Benny!”

  He grinned as he watched her drop instantly to a closed-knees squat as a wrinkly bulldog puppy—brown body, white feet, belly, face, and ears, with little brown spots on one floppy ear, and brown emanating out the sides of his eyes—waddled her way.