Antony (19 page)

“You confessed a week before your wedding to Cecelia. You wanted to start out fresh with her, if I remember correctly.”

“You’re right, as always.”

“Well, I try.”

Antony blew out a steady stream of air, feeling a weight press down on his shoulders. For a while after Vinnie’s murder, it’d disappeared. Now, it was back. Antony needed it to go away again.

“What troubles you, Antony?” Father Peter asked.

“Things.”

“Tell me of them. You know this has always been a safe zone. I never judge you, it’s not my place to do so.”

“I failed a friend.”

“Oh?”

Antony nodded though the priest couldn’t see it. “I judged him for his choices and ignored things I didn’t want to see. In the end, I failed him because of it. I wasn’t a good friend to him, not like I should have been.”

“Regret is a heavy burden we humans wear around our throats like a noose. And we never wear it as well as we think we are.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

“And I hurt my wife,” Antony added after a moment, knowing that was another thing bothering him. “Forgiveness does not come easily for a woman like Cecelia Marcello.”

Father Peter laughed. “Antony, forgiveness comes too easily for a woman like Cecelia. You know this.”

“Then why hasn’t she?”

“Have you asked her for it?”

“No,” Antony whispered.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine.”

Father Peter rapped lightly on the partition separating them. “Your penance is your conscience, Antony. I need not give you more.”

Without another word, Antony stood and opened the confessional curtains to leave. He found his wife and sons waiting on the other side. Confession was rarely held after Sunday services, but the priest had made an exception. Antony assumed Cecelia would take their boys out to the car and wait for him.

He should have known better.

Cecelia let go of Dante’s hand so she could reach for Antony’s. He took it.

“Let’s go home,” his wife said. “We have a dinner to serve,
hmm
?”

“We do.”

As they walked toward the back of the church, Dante tugged on his father’s free hand.

“What, little man?” Antony asked.

“Is Lucian coming soon?”

Antony nearly stumbled. “Pardon?”

Cecelia squeezed her husband’s hand tightly. “Soon, Dante.”

“Cool.”

Antony gave Cecelia a look. “Lucian?”

“They’re too little to understand yet. We’ll call him Lucian.”

“I still haven’t found him,” Antony said.

“You will.”

Chapter Twenty

March, 1996

“Oh my God,” Cecelia groaned. “Don’t answer that damned phone, Antony.”

Antony pushed his wife into the bed and leaned over to grab the ringing phone off the nightstand. Before he’d even turned it on, Cecelia rolled over and snatched it from him, holding it out of his reach.

“Don’t, Antony,” she warned.

“
Tesoro
, give me the phone.”

Cecelia pouted. “No.”

“Cecelia—”

“This happens every single time, I swear. Whenever we get a phone call and we’re in the middle of sex, something bad has happened. Not this time, Antony. You’re the boss, you don’t have to answer the phone. They have to answer for you. No.”

“That’s not true,” Antony said. “Something bad hasn’t always happened when we get interrupted.”

“It is too true. Think about it,
bello
.”

Antony did. She had a point.

Still … it could be important.

“Give me the phone, Cecelia.”

“No.”

Goddammit.

Antony wrestled the phone from his wife’s hand, jumped out of the bed so she couldn’t take it back, and somehow managed to dodge the pillow she threw at him all at the same time.

“You …
asshole
,” Cecelia muttered.

“Yours, though.”

“Good thing.”

Antony picked up the call, tossing his wife a wink at the same time. “Boss speaking.”

“Boss, you might want to get down to Jones’,” said one of Antony’s younger Capos.

“It’s eight at night,” Antony said. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Sorry, no, you’re right, Boss. I just meant—”

“Did something bad happen?”

“No.”

“Did someone die?”

“No,” the Capo replied.

“Does someone have to die?” Antony asked, grinning at Cecelia, who just shook her head.

“Uh … no?”

“Why was that a question and not a statement?”

The Capo spluttered for an appropriate response. “You’re the boss, Boss.”

“Exactly. And right now, I’m not needed.”

“But—”

“Vincent, right now, I’m not—”

“I’m sorry, Boss, forgive my rudeness, but a couple of guys have information you might want on a kid. That’s all they said. Something about Jones’ restaurant and a kid.”

Antony froze in place. “A kid; that all they said?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing else?”

“Sorry, Boss,” Vincent muttered.

“It’s fine. Let the guys know I’ll be there in twenty.”

Antony hung up the phone and tossed it to the bed, rubbing at his forehead.

“What happened?” Cecelia asked, sighing. “I knew it. Something happened.”

“No, you don’t. It’s … it might be good.”

Could it?

Was it him?

God, Antony hoped so.

He’d spent the last two years searching for Johnathan’s son. Lina had done her job of keeping the boy safe because not only did Antony search shelters, pay people off in the foster system looking for a John Doe that might have showed up, plus …
morgues
, but nothing.

Not a fucking thing.

Where was John’s Lucky?

Where the hell had Lina hidden Luciano?

“Antony?” Cecelia asked quietly.

“Someone’s got info on a kid,” Antony said with a shrug.

Cecelia’s eyes lit up.

Antony went on the defensive immediately. “Cecelia, don’t. We don’t know. Where the hell has this kid been, anyway? Where can a kid of his age hide? How is he supposed to take care of his little self? Could you imagine Dante doing that? Because he’s practically the same age, okay. It might just be some runaway or—”

“Kids are resilient, Antony,” Cecelia interjected softly. “They’re tough as hell. Look at our boys. They’ve got to be tough, you’re making sure they are. Who’s to say Lucian isn’t the same.”

“Luciano,” Antony corrected.

“No, in this home, he’s Lucian.”

“He’s not in this home, yet.”

“The boys know him as Lucian, Antony.”

“Fine, whatever.” Antony chewed on his inner cheek, considering everything. “It might be him, Cecelia. A couple of weeks ago the guys heard a noise in the back of the restaurant and found a kid about his age digging through the garbage cans looking for food, likely. He was muttering about and going it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, in Italian.”

“Oh,” Cecelia whispered.

“Do you want to come down there with me?” Antony asked.

“No, I should stay here.”

“Why?”

All Cecelia talked about was bringing Lucian home and keeping him safe. There was the issue of raising the child as theirs, because that was their plan, but Cosa Nostra didn’t look highly upon adoption. Antony would be quick to point out to anyone who questioned their choice of taking Lucian in that the child was considered family. He came from a made man in
la famiglia
, even if that man was now deceased.

“He’s going to need something to come home to, Antony,” Cecelia explained. “A bed, something warm, maybe his … well, you know.”

Antony’s brow furrowed. “Not really.”

“His brothers, too.”

Dante and Giovanni had stayed at Paulie’s for the night to give Cecelia and Antony a break.

“Let your enforcers know you’re leaving before you go so they can follow behind, all right?”

Cecelia nodded. “It could be him, yeah?”

Antony reached for the shirt hanging off the bedpost. “It could be him.”

• • •

He looked like Johnathan.

It was the first thing Antony noticed about the hazel eyes staring up at him.

John’s eyes.

Lucian had pushed himself to the very edge of the back seat so he was pressed against the door. Antony suspected the child had spent so much time in open space that being confined made him nervous and unsettled.

“Cookie?” Antony asked, holding out the sweets for the boy to take again.

Lucian still didn’t trust him because he wouldn’t take the food. Although, he must have found something in Antony that he trusted because he went with him. He let him hold him. He allowed Antony to put him in the car and cover him with a blanket.

The child was dirty, needed a haircut, his clothing was worn, tattered and a damned mess … but fucking Christ, he was alive.

“Why Lucian?” the nine-year-old asked.

Well, he’d be nine tomorrow, Antony knew.

“My wife likes the sound of it,” Antony answered. “Me, too.”

“
Mamma
liked Luciano.”

“I think your father liked it more.”

“Why?”

Antony chuckled. “A favorite person of Johnathan’s, that’s all.”

“Who?”

“You asked a lot of questions for such a quiet boy.”

Lucian dropped his gaze. “Sorry, Sir.”

“None of that. It’s Antony or …” Antony trailed off, unsure if telling the boy he could call him Dad would be too much. It probably would be. Better to let the child decide that on his own. “It’s Antony, Lucian. And you can ask all you want. How else will you learn if you don’t ask? It’s good to talk and ask, but it’s better to listen, huh? Always listen, Lucian. Listening will get you further, trust me.”

“Okay.”

“Cookie?” Antony offered again.

The enforcer driving the car shot Antony a look in the mirror, laughing quietly.

It was the tenth time he’d offered Lucian the cookies.

Each time he’d been rejected.

Lucian took the cookies.

• • •

September, 1997

“Antony!”

Antony poked his head over the barbecue, scowling at his angry brother as the man stalked across the yard.

“What, Ross?”

“That fucking little brat of—”

“The next words out of your mouth better be about someone else’s kid or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Ross’s gaze narrowed. “I think I know where he’s picked his bullshit up from. That, or he just can’t help it. Who knows?”

“Who?”

“Lucian.”

Antony’s confusion climbed a notch or two. Lucian was a quiet kid, especially when other people happened to be around. He said very little, tended to play alone unless Dante or Giovanni forced him out of one of his hiding spots, and rarely got into trouble like his two brothers. He was pretty damned smart for a boy who spent two years of his life living on the streets, too. It only took a private tutor and a couple of patient months and Lucian was up to speed to begin school in his proper year and age group.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ross, but knock it off. Your opinion about my son bears no fucking importance to Cecelia and me.”

“He punched my kid in the mouth!”

Antony dropped the brush he was using to coat the steaks in sauce. “What?”

“You heard me. He punched Denny in the mouth, Antony. Come on. That’s ridiculous.”

No, not necessarily, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

“Lucian has never been violent, Ross.”

“Well, Denny’s got a bloody mouth and Dante said Lucian is the one to blame.”

Waving at the barbecue, Antony said, “Take care of this, would you?”

“Whatever, just fix your kid.”

“Hey, watch it.”

Ross sighed. “Sorry, man. Just … that’s not normal, all right. It isn’t.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Antony did a quick survey of the backyard but couldn’t find Lucian anywhere. Chances were, he was in one of his hiding spots inside the house. He had a lot of those. Anywhere small, tight, and dark, Lucian liked. Closets were a particular favorite, but sometimes he tucked himself under a bed or behind a couch, too.

A therapist said that was just the kid’s way of getting used to his new surroundings by making himself feel not so small in such a big place. Cecelia and Antony didn’t like that Lucian felt as though he needed to hide away from their family and world, but they let him be. Eventually, Lucian would come to them when he was ready.

They already were, but now it was all on little Lucky.

Antony searched the wing of the mansion Lucian usually played in. The boys were allowed to roam free throughout the house except for the basement and attic. Those were off-limits for safety reasons. After checking every closet, bathroom, under beds, and behind every couch, Antony was lost.

Apparently, so was Lucian.

Walking down the hall of the second floor to go check Lucian’s bedroom again, Antony noticed his office door was open as he passed. It shouldn’t have been. For one thing, his knife collection was displayed in there and for another, it was always closed when guests were in the house.

Antony found Lucian tucked away under his large oak desk. In the nine-and-a-half-year-old’s hand was a familiar red pocketknife. Lucian opened it and closed it over and over, admiring the shiny blade and the scuffed red handle.

“My father gave me that, you know,” Antony said quietly. “I was maybe four, or a little more.”

Lucian didn’t act like Antony had surprised him. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kind of young.”

“Different time, I guess. I gave Dante and Gio theirs when they were young, too. It’s all about teaching them how to use it properly.”

“Or not use it at all,” Lucian muttered.

“That, too.”

“Am I in trouble now?” Lucian asked quietly.

“For punching your cousin?”

“He’s not really my cousin.”

Antony sighed. “You’re our boy, so yes, he is.”

“Adopted.”

“Lucian, you’re still our boy.”

Lucian wouldn’t look at Antony. “I know.”

“What happened?”

“He threw a rock at Gio.”

“Oh?”

Lucian shrugged, nodding. “Yeah, and Gio’s not quick all the time ‘cause he’s too busy looking up instead of around him like me and Dante. And the rock hit him, so I hit Denny. I’m not sorry about it, either. I hope it hurt.”

Antony had to hold back his smirk. “Why is that,
topino
?”

“Because he hurt Gio,” Lucian whispered.

“And?”

“You don’t hurt family.”

You’re raising them right, Tony.

“Well done, but you shouldn’t have hurt Denny. I think you’re going to have to apologize for that one, Lucian.”