have visitors from people who might not want to be seen entering the house of Dominic Mangini.
People like me.
None of the neighbors minded. Dominic paid them well for the slight inconvenience, and, more importantly, he said he was indebted to them. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?
I could have risked going straight to his house. I might have even gotten away with it, but why try? It was one thing to have whispers about me in the NYPD; quite another to flaunt those suspicions in front of the FBI or OCU, and there was always a chance that one of those organizations had a surveillance team with cameras focused on his front door.
I entered the passageway at the rear of Gallo’s cellar. It was concrete on one side and cinder blocks on the other. A lot of work for most people, but Dominic controlled enough of the construction business that a job like this was a small favor. The floor of the passageway was carpeted, and the walls insulated for sound. I grew nervous as I approached Dominic’s house. The buzzer would have alerted him that someone was coming.
I took a few more steps and saw a crack of light from a door opening. Then I heard Uncle Zeppe.
“Concetta!”
At the sound of his voice, all tension disappeared. My shoulders relaxed, I breathed easier. But that’s how Dominic and Zeppe were—no matter what had happened—mistakes were forgiven and forgotten—with family.
My response was automatic. “ Buongiorno, Zio Zeppe.”
He gave me a big hug, and then we made our way to the stairs. The door at the top was open. Music was playing. I think it was an Al Martino song. The door opened near the end of the kitchen. Dominic was waiting.
“ Buongiorno, Concetta. Come va? ”
“I’m fine.” I laughed. “I mean, va bene .” It had been so long since I’d been to Dominic’s house I’d forgotten the rules. Uncle Dominic insisted on greetings and goodbyes being said in Italian. I hugged him, whispering apologies. “ Mi dispiace, Zio Domenico. Mi dispiace. ”
“Sorry is for strangers.” Dominic waved his hand as if it were nothing. He made his way to the sink, hard leather heels clicking on the tile floors. He rinsed out the espresso pot, lit the stove, then waited.
“Uncle Dominic, I don’t need espresso. I’ve had plenty of coffee already.”
“Nonsense.” He opened the cabinet, grabbed a few biscotti. “Sit. Relax.”
“I can’t wait to see the kids again,” I said to Zeppe, and sat at the kitchen table, a round one with a glass top and six chairs.
Dominic pulled his chair close and held my hand in his. “So tell your uncle what brings you here today. I know it’s not to rub my balding head or see Zeppe’s handsome face.”
“I went back to work yesterday.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t what I expected. People were nice, really nice…”
Dominic said nothing. It was his silence that spurred me on. I sighed. “The captain wants me to do things I don’t want to do.”
Dominic patted my hand. “You must understand, Concetta, there is a lot of dirt to hide.”
I shook my head. “How could another cop betray Sean or Jerry. Or me?”
Something in his internal clock must have alerted him and Dominic got up to fix the espresso. “Sweet Connie. They can betray you the same way people betrayed Jesus. You are naïve when it comes to your fellow cops.” He walked back to the table, and handed me the cup on a saucer. A biscotto sat on the plate next to it. “Always remember what I taught you when you were little— si puo’ solo fidare famiglia .”
Zeppe got up from the table and went toward the stove. “Yeah, you can only trust family, but not to fix you an espresso.”
Dominic laughed. “I have fixed your espresso since you were a baby. It’s time you did it yourself.”
You can only trust family. Dominic had drummed that into my head since I was six. Sometimes I believed him; sometimes I didn’t. I nibbled on the biscotto, then looked at Dominic. “These guys were like
People like me.
None of the neighbors minded. Dominic paid them well for the slight inconvenience, and, more importantly, he said he was indebted to them. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?
I could have risked going straight to his house. I might have even gotten away with it, but why try? It was one thing to have whispers about me in the NYPD; quite another to flaunt those suspicions in front of the FBI or OCU, and there was always a chance that one of those organizations had a surveillance team with cameras focused on his front door.
I entered the passageway at the rear of Gallo’s cellar. It was concrete on one side and cinder blocks on the other. A lot of work for most people, but Dominic controlled enough of the construction business that a job like this was a small favor. The floor of the passageway was carpeted, and the walls insulated for sound. I grew nervous as I approached Dominic’s house. The buzzer would have alerted him that someone was coming.
I took a few more steps and saw a crack of light from a door opening. Then I heard Uncle Zeppe.
“Concetta!”
At the sound of his voice, all tension disappeared. My shoulders relaxed, I breathed easier. But that’s how Dominic and Zeppe were—no matter what had happened—mistakes were forgiven and forgotten—with family.
My response was automatic. “ Buongiorno, Zio Zeppe.”
He gave me a big hug, and then we made our way to the stairs. The door at the top was open. Music was playing. I think it was an Al Martino song. The door opened near the end of the kitchen. Dominic was waiting.
“ Buongiorno, Concetta. Come va? ”
“I’m fine.” I laughed. “I mean, va bene .” It had been so long since I’d been to Dominic’s house I’d forgotten the rules. Uncle Dominic insisted on greetings and goodbyes being said in Italian. I hugged him, whispering apologies. “ Mi dispiace, Zio Domenico. Mi dispiace. ”
“Sorry is for strangers.” Dominic waved his hand as if it were nothing. He made his way to the sink, hard leather heels clicking on the tile floors. He rinsed out the espresso pot, lit the stove, then waited.
“Uncle Dominic, I don’t need espresso. I’ve had plenty of coffee already.”
“Nonsense.” He opened the cabinet, grabbed a few biscotti. “Sit. Relax.”
“I can’t wait to see the kids again,” I said to Zeppe, and sat at the kitchen table, a round one with a glass top and six chairs.
Dominic pulled his chair close and held my hand in his. “So tell your uncle what brings you here today. I know it’s not to rub my balding head or see Zeppe’s handsome face.”
“I went back to work yesterday.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t what I expected. People were nice, really nice…”
Dominic said nothing. It was his silence that spurred me on. I sighed. “The captain wants me to do things I don’t want to do.”
Dominic patted my hand. “You must understand, Concetta, there is a lot of dirt to hide.”
I shook my head. “How could another cop betray Sean or Jerry. Or me?”
Something in his internal clock must have alerted him and Dominic got up to fix the espresso. “Sweet Connie. They can betray you the same way people betrayed Jesus. You are naïve when it comes to your fellow cops.” He walked back to the table, and handed me the cup on a saucer. A biscotto sat on the plate next to it. “Always remember what I taught you when you were little— si puo’ solo fidare famiglia .”
Zeppe got up from the table and went toward the stove. “Yeah, you can only trust family, but not to fix you an espresso.”
Dominic laughed. “I have fixed your espresso since you were a baby. It’s time you did it yourself.”
You can only trust family. Dominic had drummed that into my head since I was six. Sometimes I believed him; sometimes I didn’t. I nibbled on the biscotto, then looked at Dominic. “These guys were like
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