“When you start earning it,” Angelo replied.
“Just like Logan earned it?” Carlo sneered. “Even though he lost the family hundreds of thousands of dollars, you always treated him better than me. You always wished he was your son instead of me, didn’t you?”
Suddenly Angelo couldn’t take his son’s childish jealousy a moment longer. He raised the weapon over Carlo’s head and crashed the handle into his skull. Carlo threw his hands up, but he wasn’t fast enough. His body folded like an accordion onto the marble floor.
Angelo looked down at his son, lying crumpled on his side. With dismay, he leaned down and verified that Carlo was still breathing, with a steady pulse. Staring into his son’s now-peaceful face—his permanent sneer gone now that Carlo was unconscious—Angelo hoped his son had finally learned his lesson. It was glaringly obvious that sparing the rod had not turned him into a respectable man. Once upon a time Angelo had desired to be different from his own bastard of a father, but eyeing his beaten son on the floor, he realized he was not different at all. He was a Barberi man through and through.
*
“Sophie, please just talk to him.”
Her roommate’s pleading tone was evident, even over the phone, but Sophie angrily stared at the books lining the shelves in her father’s study. “What, are you on his side now?”
“No,” Kirsten insisted. “It’s just that Grant looked so broken. You don’t even want to talk to him at all? Even for a few minutes?”
“He lied to me.”
“But he didn’t know, Sophie! He didn’t know his brother was the reason you went to prison.”
“Listen to yourself, Kir. Do you really think I should trust the brother of the man who ruined my life? They share fifty percent of their DNA, for heaven’s sake!”
Kirsten suppressed a giggle. DNA? Who the hell discussed DNA in the middle of a conversation about man trouble? “But he’s a different guy from his brother,” Kirsten argued. “You told me Grant was raised by his uncle, right? That he’s been trying to get far away from his family?”
“Not far enough, evidently,” Sophie spat. “He was convicted of aggravated robbery—that’s why he went to prison. I bet he was doing a job for his family. What’s to say he wasn’t working some con for them by trying to seduce me? I bet he was working a game on me.”
“Oh, come on, Sophie. That was no game. You can tell he loves you—”
Kirsten’s voice suddenly cut off, and she was quiet for a moment. “Hey, wait a second. I have another call coming in on call-waiting.”
“Okay.” Sophie tried to take some deep breaths. Talking about Grant only upset her, and she hoped to change topics when Kirsten got back on the line. She should ask Kirsten how her dissertation was coming along …
“Sophie?” Kirsten returned to their conversation. “That was actually a detective from Great Lakes calling for you. Her name was Marilyn something?”
“What?” Sophie asked, totally confused.
“They’re coming to your dad’s house to talk to you.”
“Kirsten! My father is going to freak if police officers show up here.”
“I’m sorry. She made me tell her where you were—I didn’t have a choice. She said they were conducting a murder investigation, heading into the city to interview a suspect. They need to talk to you ASAP, and your dad’s house is on the way.”
Sophie inhaled sharply. A murder investigation? Who had been murdered? She felt tears spring to her eyes, instantly knowing it was Grant.She felt it in her gut. They’re bad people, he’d told her. They’ve already destroyed my life. Oh, God. Had they killed Grant? Had they taken away the man she loved?
“Sophie?” Kirsten’s concerned voice rang out in the silence.
“I gotta go,” she replied hoarsely, hanging up the phone as the tears began. The Barberi family had already taken so much from her. They couldn’t take Grant too. She’d spoken so harshly to him the last time they saw each other. Please, don’t let it be Grant, she silently prayed, and the intensity of hurt in her heart surprised her.
Plucking tissues from the box, she dabbed at her tears, as Grant’s wounded gaze swam before her eyes. Sophie braced herself for the detective’s arrival.
32. Complicated Grief
Perched by the docks of the Chicago River, Joe Madsen could hear Grant’s smooth, confident voice before he could see him. Eventually Joe could make out Roger’s ship, chugging toward him at the end of the five o’clock cruise.
Joe strained to hear Grant’s voice—was that singing? Grant had been delivering some sort of monologue before, but now he was definitely singing, and it only took a few notes for Joe to identify the familiar tune: “My Kind of Town.”Joe smiled brightly, but his smile faded when he thought of his sister Karita, Sinatra’s biggest fan. Joe knew it wasn’t by coincidence that Grant had chosen that particular song.
A charge of upbeat energy filled the air as the ship backed into its place along the concrete walkway. The boisterous singing of everyone on board certainly drew attention from the passersby and local businesses. Joe could see his buddy Roger adeptly working the controls, bringing the ship right alongshore. Then two young men jumped over the gunwale and tied the ship in place.
While passengers disembarked, flowing off the ship in a steady stream, Joe kept his eyes trained on the bridge. Occasionally Roger appeared to make a remark or laugh, but Grant never even smiled. He looked exhausted, gaunt, and sadder than Joe had seen him since Karita died eighteen years ago. His physical appearance did not at all match Roger’s recent reports of Grant flourishing outside of prison, and Joe wondered what was going on.
Finally all the lively, chatty passengers were off the ship, and Roger descended the stairs, chomping on a piece of fruit.
“Holy shit, are you eating an apple?” Joe called disbelievingly.
“Joe!” Roger grinned and beckoned his friend onto the deck. Proudly holding the apple aloft, Rog gestured to his belly. “Heeuh?” he pointed to his body, standing in profile and sucking in his gut. “Heeuh? Don’t I look skinny?”
“The very picture of fitness,” Joe agreed, stifling a grin. “How’s your heart doing?”
“Good,” Roger replied, glancing up to the bridge. “Much better than your nephew’s, anyway.”
Joe watched Grant move slowly around the windowed interior of the bridge, doing some sort of cleanup task. His head seemed weighed down by some invisible force. “What’s with him, Rog? He doesn’t look good.”
“Yep, Debbie Downer up there is having some chick issues. I got on his case about how depressing he was as a docent, so he livened it up a little, but I think it really takes it out of him to fake being all peppy. He barely says a word to me between cruises.”
Joe frowned. “Chick issues?”
“Yeah, we had this good-looking girl working for us—another parolee he met named Sophie—but when she found out about his family, she ditched him. You never told me his name was Grant Barberi, by the way.”