Antony (12 page)

“Miss, I am sorry, but you cannot go back there!” a man shouted in Italian.

“But my son,” Cecelia cried. “I need to be with my son!”

Antony held a lethargic, feverish Dante cradled in his arms, wishing the heavy sensation in his chest would go away so he could breathe. Fear was a fucking killer. It was sucking the life right out of his goddamn soul. Every begging plead from his wife echoing through the halls of the drab, shoddy village hospital cut him to the bone and took away his ability to function.

He wanted to reassure Cecelia everything would be okay. He wanted to hold his wife and apologize for demanding she take this trip with him. He wanted to pretend like his son wasn’t close to death and that it wasn’t all Antony’s fault.

What would happen, now?

What could this hospital in a small Sicilian village with little to no medical care worthy of the situation be able to do for his child?

What
?

His fault.

Every last bit of this was Antony’s fault.

“Let me see my son!” Cecelia screamed. “Please!”

Dante barely stirred in his father’s arms as Antony was led further down the corridor. His son’s skin was littered with red, swollen, sore-looking splotches. From his tiny, pale neck, over his arms, across his back, and all the way under the diaper he wore. The nurses had stripped the child of his clothes, explaining they needed to see how far the virus had already traveled through Dante’s tiny body.

Everywhere.

It was everywhere.

It snuck up on them so quick.

It’s been all but eradicated
, Antony remembered Cecelia saying once.

Why give him unnecessary needles?

Why put him through the pain, Antony?

He didn’t blame his wife at all for this.

Cecelia couldn’t have known. No one had warned them when they visited the villages that the virus was sweeping through.

“We cannot take the risk of you being exposed to the virus, Miss. Not in your condition.”

“But my
baby
…”

Cecelia’s voice was drowned out by her own desperate cry.

“I am sorry about your wife,” the nurse said.

Antony nodded. He was, too. “Thank you.”

“She shouldn’t be exposed any more than she already has been. Because of her pregnancy, it is risky. It could cause termination or stillbirth. I’ve seen it happen. It’s awful.”

“I understand. She will, too.”

Eventually
.

“This way,” the nurse directed Antony in Italian.

“
Sì
,” Antony whispered.

Inside a small room, the nurse waved at a metal framed hospital bed with a sunken mattress covered by a seemingly clean sheet. Instead of placing his son down to the bed, Antony got on and laid down, tucking Dante in at his side.

“You may be too hot for the child.”

“Then I will take my clothes off,” Antony replied drily.

He knew the nurse was only trying to be helpful, but really, he just wanted them to go. They’d already said Dante needed to break through his fever before they could do much else. What medication could be given had been. Now, it was nothing more than a waiting game.

“I will bring you cold cloths. We will have to keep the fever from getting any higher. It is dangerous, he may seize through the night.”

Antony kept running his hands through Dante’s soft, sweat matted curls.

He was too hot. His body temperature would only raise his son’s.

How was he supposed to leave him?

Antony forced himself up from the bed and stripped his clothes off. It was cold as hell in the hospital, enough to make him shiver, but little Dante was burning up with every passing second.

“Bring them to me,” Antony demanded, getting back into the bed with his son and drawing the child in close again. “The cold cloths, get them.”

Anything
.

He’d do anything for his son.

Chapter Thirteen

December, 1989

Dante sucked happily on the arrowroot cookie, blissfully unaware of the conversation happening around him. Antony wished he could be as ignorant as his toddler son for the moment. Instead, he had to sit quietly and respectfully while a doctor explained the likely outcome of Dante’s situation.

“Entirely?” Cecelia asked.

The doctor nodded, giving the child sitting on his father’s lap a sad look. “More than likely, yes. Because the Rubella virus was allowed to spread to his lower regions without any sort of intervention to stop it from infecting his testis, there is a good chance he will be sterile.”

“But he’s just a child,” Antony said, confused. “He doesn’t … it doesn’t need to work like an adult male’s does, right? How can something that happened at this age affect him after puberty and into adulthood?”

“It’s the nature of the virus,” the doctor explained.

Antony hated how little information was being given. They’d come to this specialist because he was supposed to be the best doctor for the circumstances. Instead, Antony thought the man was a goddamn quack.

“We can, of course, do testing to be sure when he reaches puberty and again when he comes of age. If he is found to be sterile, there is a chance that as he gets older, his fertility may return, but it’s rare. Incredibly so.”

“Sterile,” Cecelia echoed softly.

She blamed herself, he knew. Because she thought certain vaccinations were useless, Dante had gone without one and it cost him dearly. Antony still didn’t fault his wife for the innocent error in judgment. He just wished she would stop blaming herself, too.

“
Tesoro
—”

“How do we tell him that?” she asked her husband.

Antony didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know, Cecelia.”

“I need to know how we’re supposed to tell him this, Antony.”

Her heartbreak was clear. He could practically feel it a foot away.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

“Me, either,” Cecelia whispered.

Who would Dante blame?

• • •

January 1990

“Roll it in,” Antony ordered, pushing the warehouse door up the rest of the way.

He watched as the truck of stolen goods disappeared into the building before he closed the metal door just as quickly. Sometimes, Cosa Nostra’s money was made from trafficking, racketeering, laundering, or other things … but usually, it was all about the schemes. Hitting a major retail truck full of anything and everything worth a decent price on the streets was one hell of a catch.

“Well done,” Antony praised the four members of his crew that had managed to pull the stunt off. “This is going to pay well, boys.”

“That’s the idea, Skip.”

Antony grinned. “Open it up and let’s see what is all inside. We’ve got a lot of work to do. This shit needs to be on the streets and selling by morning. We need it gone and cash in hand before tomorrow night. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” came the collective agreement.

“Get to fucking work, then.”

Antony wasn’t an asshole, as far as that went. He didn’t make his crew do all the work while he sat back, did fuck all, and collected money. No, the quicker the goods got on the streets and sold, the less likely cops would figure out where it had gone to.

“Where’s the phone in this goddamn shithole?” Antony asked no one in particular.

One of his younger guys peeked out from the back of the truck. “It’s broken, Skip.”

Damn.

“When did that happen?”

The kid shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe someone forgot to pay the tab or something.”

Antony waved the guy off, ordering him back inside the truck. This was not good. He was going to be stuck inside this warehouse for the better part of the evening getting things unloaded and ready for the streets.

He never stayed away from home now without first letting Cecelia know. It wasn’t that he had to, but he promised his wife he would if he were able. Add in the fact she was close to being due with their second child, and Antony was nervous. On the other hand, he couldn’t leave his crew because if Vinnie found out Antony let his guys go AWOL with a scheme and didn’t supervise them, there would surely be hell to pay.

There was also the fact he had to make tribute for seven in the morning at the Don’s favorite restaurant. In no way would it ever be acceptable for Antony to miss tribute.

That would earn him a bullet, no questions asked.

Cosa Nostra had to come first for this.

“
Cazzo
,” Antony cussed.

Instead of worrying about it, Antony yanked off his suit jacket and climbed into the truck with his guys. A second pair of hands would get it all done quicker. The faster it was done, the sooner he could get home to Cecelia and Dante.

“Hurry up,” Antony barked inside the truck’s trailer.

“Got it, Skip,” came the agreement.

It was well after six in the morning before Antony watched the unloaded, untagged goods be loaded inside the backs of several vehicles. They’d unpacked most everything to ensure no one had proof of where the items came from. They removed any identifying tags, and then sorted the crap into piles of similarity and preference for where it would sell best on the streets. It wasn’t the first time they hit a load like this full of purses, jewelry, shoes, and clothes.

Checking his watch, Antony cursed under his breath. He still had tribute to go to before he could go home, but at least he could find a goddamn payphone and call Cecelia on the way.

Even still, something nagged at him. Antony palmed the back of his neck, sighing harshly. The heavy feeling in his stomach had only seemed to grow over the course of the evening and into the morning hours. It still wasn’t going away.

“Giovanni!” Antony shouted.

The youngest member of his crew who was pulling off the license plate on the back of the truck poked his head around the fender.

“Yeah, Skip?” the kid asked.

Antony liked Giovanni. He was quick on his feet, cunning as hell, and he followed the damn rules. That was more than Antony could say for the rest of his crew. They were all good guys, to be sure, but Giovanni understood if he wanted to get further than the streets, he needed to damn well
listen
. Not talk, listen.

“I need to make tribute in thirty minutes and I need you to go to my place and check on Cecelia,” Antony said.

Giovanni shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, Skip.”

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The kid stood and brushed off his pant legs. “She sick, or something?”

“No, she’s due and I just want to make sure she’s okay. I’ll try to call when I get to the restaurant, but I want someone over there to physically see her. Dante keeps her running nonstop and she doesn’t understand how to complain, you know.”

“All right, Skip.”

With one last goodbye to his crew and a warning that he’d be checking up on them later to see how they made out with the goods, Antony left the warehouse. He made good time traveling to the restaurant, given he went ten over the speed limit, and managed to make it five minutes early. Everyone else was already there and waiting when Antony entered the private section of the restaurant.

“Cutting it close, Marcello,” Vinnie said. “I was just about ready to send a couple of
cafones
out looking for you.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Antony replied, ignoring the curious gazes landing on him. “Hit a load last night and just finished getting it prepped thirty minutes ago.”

The Don clapped his hands together and waved at the chairs. “Perfect, more money. Sit, then. Eat.”

“Actually, I need to make a phone call first.”

“No, you need to sit, let me have my breakfast, and then pay me your tribute. Then, maybe you can make that call.”

Antony felt his jaw tighten. It was his only show of irritation. What a boss wanted, he got. That’s just how it worked in Cosa Nostra. It likely wouldn’t help if Antony explained to Vinnie it was about Cecelia because knowing his boss, the man just wouldn’t give a good goddamn.

It was tribute, after all. That meant money.

If there was anything Vinnie loved, it was money.

Lowering his frame into a chair, Antony tried to force his sudden anxiety down. Paulie sat on one side of him while Johnathan sat in the other.

“Something up?” Paulie asked.

Antony shrugged, the pressure in his chest building. “No.”

“What’s the phone call about?” John asked.

“Just wanted to check on Cecelia.”

John nodded. “She’s due, yeah?”

“A couple of days, but … I just wanted to check. I sent a guy over to Tuxedo Park, anyway.”

It would probably take Giovanni another twenty minutes or so before the kid arrived at the Marcello home. Antony tried to take comfort in the fact someone would be there to let his wife know where in the hell he was.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Tony,” John murmured.

So, why didn’t he feel like it?

“Yeah,” Antony agreed.

“What was in the truck, Marcello?” Vinnie asked, spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Retail shit,” he answered his boss.

“High-end or fake?”

“High-end.”

“Well done.”

“Thanks,” Antony muttered.

Under the table, Antony’s knee bounced. He rapped his fingers over and over on the back of John’s chair as he tried to relax in his seat. Nothing worked. Nothing seemed to help him calm the raging flood of unfounded concern.

Something had to be wrong.

Antony never felt like this before.

“How’s my Godson?” John asked.

Laughing, Antony smiled. “Busy as hell.”

“I bet. I love that fucking kid. He reminds me of you.”

John needed his own kids, as far as Antony was concerned. He was good with the little monsters and indulged his Godson every chance he got.

“When are you going to have one of your own, huh?”

John cocked a brow. “If I can help it, with Kate, never.”

Antony hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Never?”

“Tony, she threw hot coffee at me this morning before I left the house.”

Holy shit.

“Why?” Antony asked.

“Because I wouldn’t sleep with her last night. How do you fuck a woman you hate, huh?”

Ouch.

“And I have no interest in being drunk or high twenty-four-seven just so I can deal with her crazy ass and I am not that desperate to get my dick wet,” John added.

“Sorry, man.”

John waved the apology off. “Doesn’t matter, but I won’t give that woman a child to take her anger out on. If I’m not there for her to go after when she’s in one of her fits, who will fill that spot? Not my son or daughter. I’ve got everything I need, anyway.”

“But you wanted kids, John.”

“Like I said, everything I need.”

• • •

Tribute didn’t end until a little past twelve in the afternoon. The moment after Vinnie wished his Capos well for the day, Antony wasted no time slipping out on the main floor of the restaurant and finding the payphones lining the wall.

John and Paulie were at his side while he dialed his home number. They’d seemed to pick up on his insane anxiety throughout the meeting, though they did their best to reassure Antony everything was probably fine.

No one picked up at the Marcello home.

Antony slammed the phone down, slid the quarter out from the bottom, and put it back in again. No one answered for the second time, either.

John forced his friend out of the way and grabbed the quarter himself. He dialed his own home number and leaned against the payphone as it called through, rubbing at his forehead and grimacing.

“Yeah, Kate, hey.”

Antony could hear the annoying buzz of his sister-in-law’s voice, but he couldn’t make out what it was that Kate said in response. It was likely something Antony didn’t want to know, anyway.

John gritted his teeth and frowned. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be there tonight. Anyway, did you hear from your sister today or last night by any chance?” The call fell silent and John’s grip on the receiver tightened. “What the fuck do you mean she called you and you didn’t answer?”

“Just like I said, John,” Kate snapped back so loudly even Antony heard it. “I don’t have time to listen to her petty fucking complaints. She’s the one with the kid who got knocked up a second time. I don’t give a shit if she’s tired or her back hurts, okay. I don’t.”

Antony snatched the phone from Johnathan before his friend could do a thing. He couldn’t calm his anger even if he tried. Rage spilled like hot poison into his blood, threatening to take him under the current with its promise for violence.