His Mafia Queen

Luck of the Irish

He heaves a sigh. "I wanted to tell you that the feds are sniffing around Martinez. Our sources are talking about an arrest."

"What the fuck? For what?"

"Not sure. We only have the sketchiest of information."

"Well, keep digging. I want to distance myself from the son of a bitch if he's getting locked up again. And delete anything and everything that could link me to him. Maybe ask my father what he knows."

"Uh, well, sir? That's another thing."

"Oh, fuck. What is it?"

"Your father's girlfriend is here."

"At the house?"

Andre clears his throat. "Yes. She's sitting out by the pool. Topless."

This is when I explode. "Get her out. Now. I don't care what my father says. Out. It's my house, and he can't do this with a total stranger. If he has a problem then he should call me. Or, better yet, I'll call his probation officer. He can't do whatever the fuck he wants."

I hang up and resist the urge to hurl the phone through the windshield.

# # #

The Vesuvius Society is one of Boston's oldest private Italian social clubs. I'm painfully aware that by going here this afternoon, I'm not telling Riley the entire truth about my intentions. I fully plan to tell her later. I'm not stupid, and not looking to be deceptive.

I'm trying to keep her, and us, safe.

While it is true that I'm meeting a college friend — an Italian named Stefano Scalzi — this isn't entirely a social call.

Stef's a good guy, Sicilian descent, an attorney. He's also the consigliere for Boston's biggest Italian mafia family. I figure if anyone can help me find out what the fuck's going on with Beckett and the Irish, it's him. Stef's family has been in these parts for generations.

The club is in Little Italy, a neighborhood I visited years ago. I'd come here during college and Stef and I had a wild night on the town, starting at a delicious pizza place near Vesuvius in the city's North End and ending at some bar near Fenway.

My driver stops the car in front of the club. It's a nondescript iron door on the bottom floor of a four-story brick building. I climb out and someone almost immediately opens the door.

"Can I help you?" the giant guy with the crooked nose asks.

"Here to see Stefano. I'm Gabriel Greco."

"Don Greco. We've been waiting for you. Please come in." The Italian accent instantly soothes my soul, especially after my encounter with Rory back in South Boston. "Mr. Scalzi is in the back."

I walk through the place. It's like any Italian-American club, with old guys drinking espresso and shooting the shit. I nod to a few of the men, who nod back. The air is thick with the aroma of freshly brewed espresso and the fragrant notes of cigars. The walls are adorned with faded black and white photographs of previous members, their faces etched with pride and history. Soft Italian music fills the space, transporting me to a different time — I'm suddenly, fiercely, reminded of my Nonno.

I'm certain he came here a time or two.

As I make my way through the club, I catch snippets of conversations in Italian, spoken with passionate gestures and animated expressions. I feel a sense of belonging, like I'm finally home, in a hidden world where loyalty and honor run deep.

In the back room, away from prying eyes, I find Stef sitting at a round table covered with a green felt cloth. He's my age, with prematurely graying hair, sharp features, and a pair of piercing dark eyes that seem to size up everyone who enters.

"Gabriel Greco," he says with a smile. "It's been too long, my friend."

He stands up and we embrace like the old buddies we are. For a bit, we reminisce, and he reminds me that we actually tried to break into Fenway Park that night in college.

A waiter brings us espressos, and we take a sip.

"Good coffee," I say.

"But you didn't come to Boston to talk about old times and sample our espresso. You came to talk about Beckett Sinclair."

"You found things."

"Indeed. He's well known around the city because of his uncle Patrick. Here's what I've found out: your instinct to look into Patrick, and Rory Murphy was a good one. Word on the street says Murphy helped Patrick flee police when he was being investigated for human trafficking."

"Ah. So Murphy helped Patrick Sinclair hide or escape and Sinclair gave him money."

"Most likely."

"And how does his nephew Beckett fit into this?"

"Beckett's an interesting guy. Seems like a regular college graduate, went to BU for literature. A real bookworm. But he's in with the Irish, make no mistake. Apparently a few people saw him a week or two ago with Murphy."

"Fuck." My hands ball into fists.

"Listen, Gabriel. I know you mentioned that you're in love with this Irish girl from Southie. It's probably too late to tell you to find a nice Italian woman."

I smirk and sip my coffee. "It is."

"Okay, well, I think you'll want to get your girl out of Southie. My instinct tells me that her father is up to no good if he's sending Sinclair down to Tampa."

"No shit." A panicky feeling takes over. "This was my worry when I found out Beckett was from here. You just confirmed all of my worst fears."

"I'd get the fuck out while you can. That whole Irish clan are bloodthirsty maniacs. Seriously. All disciples of Whitey Bulger. We have enough trouble with them and human trafficking. Pieces of shit." He gestures, as if to say, vaffanculo.

Riley's in that apartment, alone. With a defenseless, addled mother and a piece of trash father. And, possibly, Beckett.