By Any Other Name Read online

  Ugh, I'm never drinking again.

  Primo took a seat dead center of the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it as he relaxed in his fitted gray suit. For a middle-aged man, he had a certain swagger about him that she usually admired. Usually. She paused right in the doorway, not wanting to go any closer, hoping the lecture would be quick and painless, but his expression showed no sign of urgency.

  He knew she was hung-over. He was going to drag it out intentionally.

  "Grand theft auto," he said finally, getting right to the point.

  "That's a total exaggeration."

  His eyes narrowed. "You stole an Accord."

  "Well, technically I—"

  "An Accord, Genevieve," he said, cutting her off. "Not a Ferrari. Not a Lamborghini. Not even a Mercedes. A Honda Accord."

  "It was a nice car." Her voice turned defensive as if an explanation would actually make it any better of a decision in his eyes. "It was custom painted and had a new spoiler. The guy even had an NO2 tank installed."

  "It's a Honda," he said again, his anger seeping into his words. "I don't care how customized it is. You aren't auditioning for Fast & the Furious 3."

  "I think they're up to part seven now."

  His posture shifted as he leaned forward, glaring at her. "Does it look like I care about a movie, Genevieve? Huh? You think that's what matters to me?"

  She knew this voice. He rarely used this voice on her, but she overheard him resort to it many times to intimidate and terrorize others right there in that room. Men who worked for him. Men like him. There was something about the chilling tone that could make even the hardest man go weak and beg for mercy. "No, sir."

  "Then keep it to yourself," he said. "All I care to hear is a damn good explanation of what possessed you to steal a fucking Honda!"

  "I didn't," she muttered. "Not really. I was just the passenger."

  "An accomplice is no better," he said. "Might even be worse. All of the punishment and none of the glory. At least Jason had the balls to drive the wretched thing."

  "Jackson."

  "Excuse me?"

  She cleared her throat, trying to get her voice to steady. "You called him Jason. His name's actually Jackson."

  "I don't care what his name is," he countered, scoffing as he waved the thought away dismissively. "You aren't seeing that Johnson boy anymore."

  "What? Why?"

  His eyes bore into her, like she should automatically know the answer. "You have terrible taste. The worst! You need to find a good Italian boy."

  She was rolling her eyes before he even finished. Not this argument again. "But I like Jackson."

  "He's a car thief!"

  "You can't blame him... not completely. We were drunk."

  "You're only eighteen!"

  Okay. He had a point there. "It was a mistake."

  "A mistake?"

  "Yeah, no big deal."

  "No big deal? Did you miss the part where I said you're eighteen? This isn't like those stunts you pulled before. I got you out of those because you were just a stupid kid, doing stupid things, but this isn't juvenile court anymore. This is the big time."

  Her stomach sunk as she stared at him. She hadn't given anything much thought in her drunken haze. She'd landed in the backseat of police cars a few times since her fourteenth birthday, for everything from underage drinking to trespassing to vandalism, but each time they'd delivered her straight home to her father with a stern warning aimed at him. Keep your daughter under control. This time, though, they'd taken her straight in. This time, they'd booked her.

  And this was a felony.

  "I wasn't thinking."

  His expression softened at her admission. "You're an adult now. You need to start acting like it. You can't go off running the streets, getting drunk and stealing cars with these little hoodlums. You didn't even wear your seatbelt! What's wrong with you? How stupid could you be? You could've died, Genevieve! Do you know what would happen to me if you died? Do you know what I would do if I lost you?"

  Coldness swept through her. They were questions she didn't want to address, but she knew the answers. Knew them, and lived them. They all had.

  Primo went on a warpath when he lost his family.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, I know you are," he muttered. "Just keep yourself out of trouble, will you?"

  "I will," she vowed. Try, anyway.

  "Good. Now go." He waved her away. "Clean yourself up and put on something decent. I'm sick to my stomach looking at you in that dress."

  "Yes, sir."

  Stalking over, she leaned down and kissed his rough cheek before scurrying from the room. That wasn't as bad as she expected it to be. She took the stairs two at a time, grabbing her discarded things as she went, and headed straight for her second story bedroom, at the very end of the hallway in the back of the house. It was bigger than most apartments in the city.

  Striding inside, she sighed, surveying the mess that greeted her. Clothes were strewn everywhere, most of them clean, from her frantic 'I-have-nothing-to-wear' tantrum the last time she had been home. She stepped over the discarded piles, having no energy to clean any of it up, and strode over to her walk-in closet. After flicking on the light, she slid her stilettos into their spot on the shelf.

  She took a long, hot shower in her adjoining bathroom, soaking under the spray, before strolling back into the bedroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her. Grabbing some fresh clothes—yoga pants and a tank top—she nearly dropped the towel to get dressed when someone banged on her door. Wincing, her head still viciously throbbing, she turned around, clutching the towel tightly to herself. "What?"

  The door flung open, crashing into the wall. "Hey, sis."

  She cringed, glaring at her brother in the doorway. "Dante."

  Dante seemed to be the complete opposite of her at first glance. Everything about him glowed warm tan, with his chocolate-colored hair and matching eyes, while Genna always appeared cold like porcelain. It didn't help that image when her father treated her like she'd been delicately chiseled from a block of ice and set up on a pedestal, hovered over in case she ever started to thaw. Where Dante was soft, embraceable, she was sharp, with her steely blue eyes and dark hair, skin paler than anyone else in her family. Growing up, Dante teased her for it, saying she was adopted, that she wasn't really a Galante.

  Some days, she almost wished she wasn't.

  But deeper, below the surface, her and her brother were a lot alike.

  "So, spent the night incarcerated, did you?" Dante teased, fighting a smile that tugged the corner of his lips. "How was the ass-pounding penitentiary?"

  She rolled her eyes. "It was just a few hours in lockup, which you know, since I called you to come get me. Foul, by the way. Did you really have to send him instead?"

  Dante held his hands up defensively as he casually leaned against the doorframe. "Not my fault. He saw the number and wanted to know who it was calling."

  "And you had to tell him?"

  The question was stupid, because yes, he had to tell him. Dante was bound by rules she only vaguely knew about, rules her father tried to shield her from, but she wasn't stupid. Anyone with half a brain and access to the Internet could find out everything they wanted to know about her father's life. In fact, just the week before, the Discovery Channel aired a special on it.

  Inside the Mafia.

  It was a fucked up way to live, she thought, learning all about your family's darkest secrets on a primetime crime show on TV.

  "I owe you one," Dante offered instead of answering. "You need a favor, just name it, and I'm there for you, no matter how bad you fuck up."

  His response made her smile, although those words were unnecessary. Family meant everything to Dante, and Genna knew, any time she needed him, he would be there with no questions asked. He might not like her decisions, but unlike their father, Dante never judged her for making them.

  "So you just come up here to pick on me?" s
he asked. "Because if you're done now, I'd like to get dressed."

  "No, Dad sent me up here to get whatever you were wearing when he sprung you from the slammer." Genna's brow furrowed as she glanced around, spotting the black dress lying in a heap on the floor. Noticing where her attention went, Dante snatched it up, holding it away from him as he dangled it from his fingers. "Is this it?"

  "Yes."

  "Thanks."

  He turned to leave when she caught his arm, stopping him. "Wait, what are you doing with my dress?"

  "Burning it."

  She gaped at him, wide-eyed. "Burning it? Why?"

  "So you can never wear it again."

  "Because it's some bad luck symbol now or something?" She loved that dress. Sure, it needed a good soaking to get the jailhouse stench out of it, but it was practically brand new. "Is it because I got arrested? Because that's not the dress's fault."

  "No, it's because you look like a cheap hooker in it."

  "I do not."

  Dante shrugged. "The old man thinks so, and what he says goes."

  She glowered at her brother as he strode down the hallway, dragging the dress on the floor behind him. After he was gone, she slammed her door and walked over to her bed, plopping down in it as she closed her eyes.

  To hell with getting dressed.

  Dinner had always been the one time when the Galantes came together as a family. For one hour a day, seven days a week, everything else was put aside as they gathered in the dining room, enjoying an elaborate meal prepared by the staff. Primo spared no expense at home, keeping trustworthy maids and cooks on his payroll.

  Nothing was too good for his family, he'd said.

  Rarely did any of them skip dinner, going out of their way to make sure they were home at eight o'clock to eat. Although it had never been mandatory, per se, it was more of an understanding, a matter of respect.

  But sleeping off her lingering hangover, Genna damn near missed it.

  Something startled her awake, darkness creeping through her bedroom as the sun set outside. Groggy, she blinked a few times, her eyes drifting toward the alarm clock across the room.

  8:12 PM

  "Shit!" She jumped to her feet, swaying a bit as her vision went hazy from the sudden movement. Discarding the towel, she quickly pulled on her clothes—wrinkled from her sleeping on top of them—and ran her fingers through her long knotted hair, sloppily pulling it back as she scurried from the room. She was breathing heavily by the time she made it downstairs, bursting into the dining room at exactly a quarter after. Her head was still throbbing, pounding to the beat of her heart, as her gaze sought out her father's. Primo sat in his usual chair, at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the doorway, his food completely untouched as he waited for her to appear.

  "Sorry," she muttered, sliding into her seat two chairs down from her father, directly across from Dante. Relief shined from her brother's eyes as he regarded her. "I fell asleep, and well, you know… here I am."

  "Here you are," her father agreed as he extended his hands toward Dante and her. They took them, bowing their heads as he quietly said Grace. Afterward, the guys eagerly dove into their food, while Genna just shifted hers around on her plate.

  She still felt too queasy to eat.

  They chatted about sports, her brother bringing up the Yankees, as Genna's mind wandered. She thought about Jackson, wondered how he had fared after their arrest. Had he been released, too? Did he even have anybody to call to get him out? Her father told her not to see him anymore, but well, she was never very good at listening.

  And even sober, she still thought the guy was pretty damn cute.

  "Genevieve?"

  Her eyes shot to her father's when he called her name. "Yes?"

  "Where's your mind?" he asked. "I've been trying to talk to you for the past few minutes."

  "I, uh... nowhere. Sorry, I'm listening."

  "I was asking about Umberto Ricci."

  Her brow furrowed. Why's he asking me about Dante's friend? "What about him?"

  "You and him ought to get together. You know, go out sometime."

  She grimaced. "Really, Dad?"

  "Yeah, what's wrong with him? He's a nice Italian boy. The two of you would make a good family together."

  "He's Umberto! He's like, four feet tall." Not to mention the fact that he could never carry a conversation. Talking to him was painful. "Besides, didn't he just get out of jail? For the second time?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Jackson steals one car and he's the spawn of Satan. Umberto makes a living breaking the law and you practically try to marry me off to him! What gives?"

  Primo scoffed and looked away, turning right back to his dinner. He wouldn't answer, but he didn't really need to. Genna knew why.

  Umberto Ricci worked for him.

  "Whatever," she muttered, shifting more food around on her plate. "I'm not interested in making a family with Umberto, but thanks, anyway."

  Before her father could scold her for her curt tone, a ringing cell phone shattered the silence. Dinner was interruption-free time, all of their phones turned off and put away, except for one. It was one her father carried with him everywhere—one everyone knew was reserved solely for emergencies. Genna had never dialed that number before and hoped to never have to.

  They tensed, watching as Primo grabbed the phone and answered swiftly with a simple command: "Talk."

  The call lasted less than thirty seconds. Her father hung up without saying another word. Sighing, Primo shoved his chair back, tossing his napkin down, as he looked between Genna and her brother. "Barsanti."

  No elaboration. No explanation. It was unnecessary, anyway. Dinner was over twenty minutes early. Primo marched from the room, a man on a mission, while the word lingered around them in his wake, like a heavy, ominous cloud of noxious fumes, hell bent on poisoning whoever breathed it in.

  Barsanti.

  Fuck. Shit. Goddamn. Cunt. Cocksucker. None of those words held a fraction of the offense of uttering the curse Barsanti around the Galante household. If Genna's mother had been there, the mere sound of it would have driven her to prayers as she madly made the sign of the cross, outraged to have the blasphemous word spoken at her dinner table.

  At that thought, Genna carefully set her fork down, giving up the façade of being interested in eating ever again, as her gaze drifted to the empty chair right beside her. It had been vacant for a little over four years, but every single night, without fail, a plate and silverware were set at it like someone might actually sit there again someday.

  The chair across from it, too, remained uninhabited, also set for dinner, never again to be used. That one had been unoccupied for as long as Genna could remember. She had only been two at the time, much too young to recall what happened.

  Dante had been five, though. It was his first memory… one she knew he would never forget. He carried the scars with him, mentally and physically, the skin on his chest thickened and distorted from extensive third-degree burns, his perception forever tainted.

  "I should go," Dante said quietly, standing up. "Dad might need me."

  Genna nodded but otherwise ignored him as he walked out. She always wondered what he thought at these moments, if he was reliving that day—their fatal run-in with the Barsantis.

  To nobody's surprise, New York was a hot spot for organized crime. Five families shared stake in the illicit underground world, although two held the most power around Manhattan: the Galantes and the Barsantis. They worked amicably for a lot of years, sharing control equally, until one day the peace shattered, exploding into a fiery blaze.

  Literally.

  Since then, the vicious rivalry festered, a war between the families waging, the hostility so great that the mere mention of their existence made Genna sick with anxiety, and she was as far removed from the lifestyle as a Galante could possibly get. But as far as she was concerned, those people were monsters. Her father had taught her that since she was just a little gir
l, warning her, protecting her, so she would know to stay away.

  "The only good Barsanti is a dead Barsanti," he'd said. "You see one, you run the other way."

  Once her father and brother were gone, Genna went upstairs to fix her hair and put on make-up before heading out for the night. There was no way she was hanging around that house by herself with nothing to do but worry about what her family was up to. She drove straight to Harlem, parking in front of the townhouse where Jackson stayed. After locking up her black BMW, she knocked on the front door, expecting his sister to answer, or maybe one of his parents, but was stunned when none other than Jackson himself opened the door for her.

  "Hey!" She rushed right at him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug that seemed to startle him more than anything.

  He tensed, lightly patting her back. "Oh, hey, Genna."

  "You're out! I thought you'd call me when someone sprung you."

  "Yeah, well..." He nervously rubbed his neck, frowning. "I didn't think that was such a good idea."

  "Why?" It hadn't been entirely her fault they got arrested. Sure, she started the car, technically, but it had been his idea to take it for a spin. "What's wrong?"

  "Your dad doesn't think we should see each other anymore."

  Her expression fell when he said that. No. "No."

  "Look, I just think maybe he's right."

  "Did he threaten you?" she asked. That would be so like her father. Wouldn't be the first guy he scared away from dating her. In fact, he seemed to scare everyone away. She couldn't even keep friends because of him monitoring her life and constantly intervening, sending his minions to wherever she was to keep an eye on them.

  "No, he didn't threaten me. It's nothing like that."

  "Then how do you know he doesn't want us together?"

  "He told me," he said sheepishly, "when he bailed me out this afternoon."

  "So that's it." Angry tears burned Genna's eyes, but she felt little in the way of sadness. No, this felt like betrayal. "He paid you off."

  "I'm sorry, Genna," he said. "Really, I am. I didn't want to hurt you."

  "You didn't," she said, backing away from him as she tried to ignore the pain nagging her chest that suggested otherwise. Man, it did hurt. It hurt like a son of a bitch. "I'm just disappointed, Jackson."