‘So he lied.’ I tried to keep the surprise from my voice. I know Nic was more than capable of being dishonest, but when he had sat beside me in his sitting room, pouring out the secrets of his lineage, he had seemed so sincere.
Luca’s forehead creased. ‘I think it’s less about him lying to you and more about him lying to himself. The Marinos have always been different from the other families. We’ve never shared a history of respect with them.’
‘Are you still at war … in a “blood war”?’ I amended, wondering at the sick turn in my stomach, at the way my panic flared at the thought. How strong were the Marinos now? How close were they to the Falcones? Just how bloody was a blood war?
‘No. Not for a while now.’ Luca’s face was pale and drawn; he looked tired of standing, tired of talking. He sat down, tucking his boots under the bench and leaning forward. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, thinking. I was struck by the memory of Valentino – how alike they were in that moment, one in my memory, the other beside me. I stayed standing, curious now that I was steeped in their history. I circled the room, scanning names I couldn’t pronounce and Roman numerals that made no sense.
‘That’s good, I suppose, that there’s peace,’ I said.
I couldn’t see Luca’s face, but the back of his head jerked, and he snorted. ‘A truce is only as good as its sincerity. Once my mother’s sister has rebuilt her wealth and the Marino membership, she’ll come out of the woodwork.’
‘Maybe she won’t. Maybe she wants peace too. That’s what most people want.’ Well, most sane people.
‘Peace or not, there’s an old Falcone saying: “Never turn your back on a Marino”.’
‘Ah, a family saying,’ I said. ‘Kind of like “A Lannister always pays his debts”.’
He swivelled around, re-planting his feet on the ground closest to me. He cocked his head. ‘What?’
I raised my hand to him. ‘Don’t act like you’ve never seen Game of Thrones, Luca. Nobody likes a liar.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Trust you to lower the seriousness of the conversation.’
‘I was contributing,’ I countered. ‘It’s not like I have a family motto to offer.’
‘What a shame,’ he said drily.
‘If I did, it would probably be something like “When all else fails, play dead”.’
‘That’s idiotic.’
‘Tell that to possums. They know what they’re at.’
‘Well, it’s nice to know I don’t have to worry about you when you’re out there on your own.’ I could almost taste the sarcasm in the air.
My laughter surprised me. It hung in echoes around us, making the room seem bigger and colder.
Luca’s eyes grew in surprise, two sapphires sparkling in the dimness. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Just the thought of you worrying about me. Or, well, anything, really.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘How low your opinion of me is.’
I circled the bench, zeroing in on his grandfather’s inscription. I could sense him turning with me, following my movements. How long had we been in here by now? And why was I so eager to traverse the walls of history in his company?
‘They were hoping I would be just like him,’ he offered into the silence. I pressed my lips together, surprised at his willingness to surrender information to me, to want to talk to me about something real, something important. ‘Gianluca Falcone was the capo di tutti i capi, the boss of all bosses. My grandfather had marked me that day in the hospital, before he died.’
‘Do you want to be like him?’ I asked, turning to study him.
A subtle tilt of the chin, and then, quietly, he said, ‘Isn’t the answer obvious?’
‘He sacrificed himself so that you would have parents to raise you.’
‘One right doesn’t remedy a thousand wrongs.’
‘You should write a book of quotes.’
He wasn’t smiling. I supposed it was obvious then. Glaringly obvious, if you knew where to look – Luca had abstained from the role handed down to him by his father, the role they all wanted him to undertake. He had given it away, but not entirely. He was still the underboss. Conflicted, dreaming, but ultimately trapped. What was there to smile about?
‘What do all the numbers mean?’ I read his grandfather’s Roman numeral aloud. ‘One hundred and thirteen? Is it some kind of ranking system?’
Luca stood up, the earlier exhaustion fading from his face. ‘You can read Roman numerals?’
‘I’m pretty smart, I’ll have you know,’ I said. ‘Not a nerd, like you. But smart, in the ways that matter.’
He traced the number with his forefinger. ‘This is my grandfather’s kill count.’
The room seemed to darken all of a sudden. I stepped backwards and stumbled against the bench. One hundred and thirteen people. One hundred and thirteen funerals. One hundred and thirteen grieving families. So that was what it meant to be the boss of all bosses. Suddenly Luca’s words took on a whole new weight. He was Gianluca II, his grandfather’s prodigy; the butcher’s legacy. ‘And your family want you to be just like him?’
‘Yes, they do.’ An emotionless answer.
‘And, just how like him are you already?’