Normally, she didn’t mind that they were only allowed their phones for a short time in the evening when supervised by the Sisters, but what she had to do, she didn’t want anyone else to know about; she wanted it to be a surprise. So when she’d taken her father’s call in Sister Margaret’s office this morning, she’d also taken the opportunity to grab her phone out of the box they were kept in and slip it into her pocket.
Trying to push the feeling of guilt aside, Alice walked towards the far meadow where Mac, the convent’s old dapple grey pony, was grazing.
Tearing a large handful of grass, she walked towards him, talking warmly. ‘Here, boy, here you go … Come on, Mac, look what I’ve got for you.’
Lifting his head for a moment then turning away uninterested – quite satisfied with the grass already in his paddock – Mac sauntered off, leaving Alice to sit down by the large basswood tree.
She sighed deeply, worried about her father. He’d sounded strange – stressed – when they’d spoken this morning, and although she’d asked him if everything was all right and he’d told her he was fine, she knew something was wrong. Very wrong.
Perhaps he was working too hard, maybe business was bad … Not that she knew exactly what it was he did. Something to do with selling insurance was all he’d said when she’d asked. But it was obvious he was not feeling his best, which was even more of a reason for her doing what she was about to.
She wanted to do something special for him, something nice for his birthday next week. After all, he deserved it. He was always thinking about her or about Franny, making sure that everyone else was all right, and often neglected himself. So, this year she decided that she was going to make a fuss of him, and hopefully that might cheer him up.
Pulling out a piece of paper from her pocket, Alice began to dial a number. It rang twice before being answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Alice Rose. You don’t know me, but I’m the daughter of Cabhan Morton.’
The splattering of blood covered the shower walls as Nico Russo stamped his boot into Don Lombardi’s face. Don was a small-time crook who’d spent most of his life in and out of penitentiaries, but it was obvious to Nico that the one lesson prison life hadn’t taught him was the most basic lesson of all: never steal from your own. So now he had to remind Don of exactly what happened to anyone who skipped that class.
‘Hey, Don, had enough yet? What was that?’
Nico jumped in the air, bringing his foot down from a height. The weight and severity was so great that Don’s mouth immediately flooded with blood while his front teeth were pounded out of his gums. Nico stamped his boot further towards the back of Don’s mouth, pushing the rest of his teeth out of the way.
Avoiding the jets of water from the large communal showerheads, Nico crouched down, panting from the exertion, inches away from hair-coiled soapsuds that mixed with Don’s body fluids on the cracked tile floor.
Nico’s tone was calm, reassuring. ‘Don, mio amico, my friend, I want to give you the chance to tell your side of the story. I want to know if it’s true what they said you did.’
There was silence save the running water and the gurgling noises from Don Lombardi struggling to gasp for air. Nico pulled a face. ‘I’ll ask you again. Is it true that you stole the phone? Tell me.’
Sighing, Nico forced one hand in Don’s mouth, yanking it open before putting his fingers between Don’s bleeding gums to keep it open.
Bringing his eyes up to his men, Nico nodded. ‘Give me them.’
Then without a word, a tall dark-haired man who stood impassively by the shower entrance handed Nico a pair of scissors from out of his trouser pocket.
Turning his attention back to Don, Nico said, ‘You see this, Don? This is what happens to people who disrespect my friends by stealing from them. Respect to me is more important than family. Rispetto. Respect. The one thing I ask of all who know me, because without it, we are all just animals … And as you have nothing to say to me, you won’t have any need of this.’
Don Lombardi shook his head with terror as Nico yanked at his tongue, digging the sharp scissors through the flesh as he began to extract it.
‘Nico! Nico, do you have to do this in here?’
As Don choked and convulsed on the floor in an agony beyond pain, Nico threw the severed tongue to one side before looking up at the prison warden. Officer Johnstone was just one of several on his payroll. In fact, most of the correction officers in the facility, whether voluntarily or by various levels of coercion, were on his payroll in some way or another. It made for an easier life, making the hellhole he was in slightly less of a hellhole.
Armed and dressed in a dark green uniform, Officer Johnstone glanced down at Don Lombardi, his manner casual, almost weary. ‘Get this cleared up. You hear me, Russo? And for Christ’s sake, make sure someone takes him to medical.’
Standing up, Nico brushed down his clothes, running his hands under the icy showers to wash away the blood. He turned to smile at his men, though his tone was ominous and taunting, something Johnstone didn’t fail to miss. ‘You heard him. Clear this mess up. Capito? Understand? We’d hate to upset the officer, wouldn’t we?’
‘Good, make sure you do by the time I get back.’
Watching Officer Johnstone leave, Nico thought, as he seemed to every moment of every minute of every day, that he’d been behind bars far too long. Eight years too long after one of his men had turned informer. A hazard of his trade and a reason to rule his empire like Satan himself.
Johnny Milano had worked for him for over twenty years, but he’d squealed to the FBI like a sow on heat. And despite the fact he’d given Johnny his first break – had let him in to the heart of the Russo family and even paid for the cocksucker’s wedding to some two-dollar stripper from Long Island – Johnny Milano had repaid him by telling the feds everything he knew about the drug deals, the money laundering, the illegal shipping, the prostitution, the smuggling, the whole goddamn lot.
But Nico had had a tip-off from someone on his payroll in the bureau and consequently managed to cover most of his tracks. The FBI couldn’t find anything that was going to stand up in court relating to any illegal activity, but ironically what they did find was in connection to tax evasion linked to some of the family’s legal businesses.
The IRS had thrown the book at him and he’d been given fifteen years, and it looked like he was going to have to serve all fifteen. The parole board didn’t seem interested in letting the head of the Russo family back out on the streets.
Though he’d sure as hell made Johnny Milano pay. Johnny had thought the FBI witness protection would keep him safe, but there was no such thing as protection for rats. No hiding place. His men had searched and they’d found the whole of the Milano family. The mother, the grandmother, the children, even the pet rabbits, along with the two-dollar stripper from Long Island. No one escaped revenge. Revenge had been Johnny Milano’s executioner and it would be anyone else’s who dared to cross him.
‘Nico.’
Breaking his thoughts, Nico looked up to see Chris D’Amato, his cellmate – and a good friend – walk into the shower room. ‘It’s for you, Nico.’
He held out a mobile phone.
‘Who is it?’
‘She says her name’s Alice Rose.’
Nico Russo whirled the