“You do smell like sunshine.”

“And how does sunshine smell?”

“It smells like the outside world. Warm. Happy. Safe.” She paused. “Green.”

“Green?”

She nodded. “Definitely green.”

* * *

Tarullo’s Pizzeria was a small establishment, owned by second-generation immigrant John Tarullo. He was what they called an omu de panza, a man with a belly, and La Cosa Nostra rewarded him for it. He minded his own business and looked the other way, and in exchange for his silence they made certain he thrived. Tarullo didn’t like relying on the mob—in fact, he’d told Vincent many times he detested the organization—but if it weren’t them, it would be someone else. Someone would come around expecting something from him, and it was better that that someone at least be a familiar face.

Vincent, personally, felt protective of the pizzeria. Tarullo had been the one to find Carmine the night he’d been shot, and Vincent would forever feel indebted to the man for saving his son.

It was something Tarullo would rather forget, though.

They never had much trouble at Tarullo’s Pizzeria, since everyone knew it was under protection after what Tarullo had done for Carmine, so Vincent was shocked when he received a call to go to the place years later. The moment he stepped inside the restaurant and heard the loud, disruptive voices, his hand settled on the gun concealed in his coat.

He stood still, surveying the men at the front counter, both Caucasian with sandy hair. Vincent assessed them as they bickered, their voices slurring. He wasn’t sure why he’d been called in for such a petty situation, but when the drunken men’s focus shifted to Tarullo, he took a step forward anyway. He barely made it three feet from the door when it opened, a single word booming through the pizzeria. “Zatknis!”

Shut up. It was one of the only words Vincent knew in Russian. He’d heard it barked many times in his life from the lips of the man now standing a few feet from him.

Vincent glared at him. He was tall and built like a linebacker, his gray hair concealed under a black cap. Although he was pushing seventy, the man had the mind-set of a psychopathic twenty-year-old assassin.

“Ivan Volkov,” Vincent said. “You’re not welcome here.”

Ivan stared at him blankly for a moment before turning around and walking out of the pizzeria. Before the door could close, he stepped back in. “I do not see your name on the sign.”

“I don’t need to own the place,” Vincent said. “You have no business being in this part of town.”

Despite the fact that Vincent was fuming, Ivan had the audacity to smile. “Why are you always serious? We have only come for pizza.”

“Go somewhere else.”

“But I wish to eat here.”

The two men stood at an impasse, Vincent’s hand still hovering near his gun. Ivan was unaffected, though, and appeared impatient as he scanned the price menu on the wall.

The door opened again as Corrado walked in. He didn’t look at Ivan as he stepped around him. “Volkov.”

“Moretti.”

“Leave.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be forced to kill you if you don’t, and I’m wearing my favorite shirt. It’ll ruin my night to get your filthy blood on it.”

Ivan said nothing in response as Corrado casually strolled up to the counter. The two men moved out of the way when Corrado reached into his coat. Everyone tensed, a suffocating silence blanketing the room, but instead of pulling out his gun, Corrado retrieved his wallet. “I need a small deep dish with sausage and mushrooms. Light on the sauce. You know how I like it.”

Tarullo rang him up, the chime of the register magnified in the edgy restaurant. “$17.78.”

Corrado handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change.

Ivan sighed, motioning for his guys to leave before turning to Vincent. “We will see each other again.”

Vincent nodded. “I’m sure.”

The Russians left, their voices loud once more as they stepped into the street. Vincent looked at his brother-in-law. Corrado eyed him peculiarly as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his pizza. “They’re trying to provoke us.”

“I know,” Vincent said. “Did you get a call to come here too?”

“No, I wanted some pizza.”

Vincent stared at him. “You know we’re expected to meet Sal for a sit-down, right?”

“Yes,” Corrado said, looking at his watch. “But I’m hungry.”

* * *

Sit-downs to la famiglia were nothing like the movies. When he was growing up, Vincent envisioned elaborate meetings held like court, and he’d laugh, imagining his father in a black robe with a gavel, sitting on a bench while the parties argued their sides. The guilty man lost and justice was served, another case put to rest.

No, sit-downs were nothing like that. They more than often happened while on a casual stroll, sometimes adjourning with no words spoken. You didn’t plead your case, and it didn’t matter if you were innocent. Judgment had been passed before you showed up.

Vincent stood near the pier overlooking Lake Michigan. The Federica floated not a hundred feet from him, a woman moving around on deck. She looked young, maybe late twenties. A goomah, a mistress, attracted to the lifestyle and turned on by the power they held. Vincent thought them to be nothing but glorified prostitutes, exchanging sex for gifts and trips abroad.

“Is Carlo coming?” Giovanni asked. Vincent turned away from the yacht, glancing around at the men gathered. Giovanni looked frozen, bundled up in a thick coat.

Sal shook his head. “He’s gone back to Vegas.”

Carlo had taken over their operations in Las Vegas a few years back, so he rarely appeared in Chicago anymore. Vincent resented him for the special treatment he received. He’d moved away, too, but was still expected to show up.

“So, fourteen pinched,” Sal said, getting down to business. “Two stool pigeons singing.”

There was collective grumbling among the men. Fourteen members of La Cosa Nostra had been arrested and two had turned state’s evidence, cooperating with the government.

“You gonna silence them?” Squint asked.

Vincent looked at him, still wary the boy was invited to these meetings. “There’s too much heat. They’re being guarded.”

“So?” Squint said. “Take out the families. They’ll get the message.”

Vincent and Giovanni both opened their mouths to interject, but Corrado’s voice rang out before they could. “No.”

He leaned against his Mercedes, clutching the box of pizza and devouring it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He said nothing else, no explanation, but that didn’t surprise Vincent. He’d said all he needed to with that one word.

“Corrado’s right,” Sal said. “Just lay low until we know more.”

Squint grumbled to himself while Corrado continued to eat. Giovanni shivered, and Vincent grew impatient as Sal’s attention drifted to the yacht. They spoke a bit more as Vincent’s mind wandered, only returning to the conversation when the Russians were mentioned.

“They were at Tarullo’s tonight,” Vincent said.

“Did they hurt anyone?” Sal asked. “Or did it get handled?”

“It was handled.”

He nodded. “No reason to dwell, then.”

Giovanni tried to interject, but Sal gave him a look that closed the subject. He waved his hand, silently dismissing them, and Corrado was in his car without having spoken another word. Vincent turned to walk away but was stopped by the Don’s voice. “How’s my godson?”

Vincent’s blood ran cold at the question. “He’s fine.”

“Is he doing well in school? Passing?”

“He’s squeaking by. Still skipping a lot.”

Sal laughed. “Doesn’t surprise me. This business, la famiglia, is in that boy’s blood. And that’s everything, you know. Famiglia. That’s what matters.”

Vincent had nothing nice to say about that, but Sal didn’t wait for a response. Reaching into his coat, Sal pulled out a thick manila envelope and held it out to Vincent. “Give this to Principe for me. A little something from his godfather.”

Begrudgingly, Vincent took it before heading to his car. Once inside, he shoved the envelope of cash into his glove compartment. He had no intention of giving it to his son.

* * *

Haven took a seat at the library window while Carmine grabbed his guitar, joining her. Wordlessly, she picked up a book from the small table between them. Carmine smiled when he saw it was The Secret Garden. “So you haven’t given up on that?”

“No,” she said, opening it to a page about a quarter of the way in. “It’s good. She searches for the garden and makes friends with this little robin. It reminds me of . . .”

She trailed off as Carmine plucked the strings of his guitar, random notes sounding out in the room. “Reminds you of what?” he asked when she didn’t continue.

“It reminds me of when I was little and talked to the animals,” she said. “They had a few dogs, but it was mainly horses. I stayed in the stables with them.”

Caught off guard, his finger plucked the wrong string. They both cringed from the sharp note. “You slept with the fucking horses?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t so bad. They kept me company.”

His jaw clenched as he held back his temper. She could say it wasn’t bad if she wanted, but Carmine couldn’t think of a more inhumane scenario.

He continued to strum his guitar, playing around with sounds as she quietly read. Her eyes would occasionally drift over the top of the book, settling on him. “Can I ask you something, Carmine?”

“Of course you can.”

“Why did you shoot at Nicholas last year?”

Another sharp note rang out. Of all the things she could ask, she wanted to talk about Nicholas? “We had a falling-out after I messed around with his sister. He got mad and ran his mouth, said something about my mom, and I snapped.”

“Your mama?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s in Chicago?”

He sighed. “Hillside.”

“What’s she doing there?”

He hesitated. “Nothing. She’s gone.”

“You mean like . . . dead?”

Carmine cringed at the word and nodded.

He played again as Haven went back to her book. He felt no judgment, no disappointment, no pressure to explain. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how much he craved that acceptance. She’d changed him. He wasn’t sure how, but he felt different. He was Maura’s son again, and not so much Vincent DeMarco’s heir.

* * *

“Look at the Suburban.”

Corrado’s voice was nonchalant, but Vincent knew better than to believe he wasn’t on alert. He waited a few seconds before turning, seeing the black Chevy Suburban parked along the curb half a block away.

The darkly tinted windows obstructed the inside view, but Vincent could manage a guess or two at who was there. “FBI, you think? Doesn’t seem like locals.”