Читать книгу Last Man Standing - Wendy Rosnau - Страница 8

Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi’s estate. Today’s niggle was security.

There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.

Still, he’d been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that’s not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.

The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari—the only extravagant toy he owned—up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.

Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.

Lucky sped through the second set of open gates—another guard giving him a nod—then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily’s legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.

Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone archway. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives—a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds—were laid out on a marble slab inside the archway. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.

His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito’s bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito’s bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman’s backside burned into his forearm.

Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.

Because Lucky knew Palone’s intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door’s six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, “Not this time, Palone. Today, I’m a solo act with your boss.”

The guard’s green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky’s head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. “What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but—”

“It’s all right, Benito,” Vito’s gravelly voice rumbled. “If Frank Masado’s son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn’t that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?”

Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas—mostly people outside the famiglia.

“You wanted to see me.” Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of throat cancer.

“My lawyer made the changes you requested in my will. The papers were delivered this afternoon. They’re ready to be signed.”

Two days ago Lucky had agreed to become Vito Tandi’s son on paper—the heir of Dante Armanno. That is, if certain sections of the will were amended to his specifications.

CEO of Vito’s fortune had never made Lucky’s list of dream jobs. But being born Sicilian and the son of a syndicate player hadn’t been something he could control. Liking who and what you were wasn’t a requirement for doing the job you were trained to do, his father had always told him. Not when he was twenty, and not now at thirty-one.

Vito raised his hand and motioned for Lucky to take a seat in the red velvet chair in front of his desk. Then, with a gratuitous wave, he shooed away his guard. “Benito, tell Summ to bring us something to drink. I believe there will be cause to celebrate. Tell her we’d like—”

“Scotch,” Lucky suggested, shedding his brown leather jacket. He dropped it beside the chair before taking a seat.

“It looks like we need to restock the wine cellar, Benito. I’ve neglected it this past year, and I imagine it’s in sorry shape.” Vito studied Lucky for a moment and finally said, “Your preferences?”

“Macallan, and some good wine.”

“Yes, I’m a wine man myself. Bardolino and soave.” His gaze went back to his bodyguard. “There you have it, Benito. Make arrangements to restock the cellar. And instruct Summ to bring us the best Scotch we have in the house.”

When the door closed, Vito reached for a fat Italian cigar in a carved wooden box. “Cigar?”

Lucky shook his head. “Just the Scotch.”

“The other day when I suggested you move into the estate as soon as possible, I sensed some reluctance. I understand you still live in your father’s old house. After tonight, I suspect, your enemies will double. This would be the safest place for you, huh?”

Lucky said nothing. He wasn’t going to sell the house in town. He and Joey had already discussed what they would do with it, if and when he moved out.

“It’s no secret that money and power is not what drives you,” Vito continued. “If it was, you would have moved out of your old neighborhood long ago. So what will it take to convince you to accept my generosity and live with me at Dante Armanno?”

Never short on words when he had something to say, Lucky said, “An overhaul on security, for starters, and a private meeting with each of your guards.”

Vito’s bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. “My security expenditures are close to a million a year. Are you suggesting that’s not enough?”

“There are things money can’t buy. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

His candid reference to Vito’s failing health and his irreversible fate was duly noted with a sour grunt of displeasure.

“Your house has thirty-eight rooms, nine entrances and 116 windows,” Lucky continued. “Twenty-one of those windows are in need of repairs. You also have a state-of-the-art underground tunnel. By the way, the light is out in the hidden passageway leading to your bedroom. Unless someone has replaced it since this morning.”

“You’ve been busy. Am I to assume no tour will be necessary once you move in?”

“You can assume whatever you want, old man.”

An unexpected rusty chuckle erupted from Vito. Rubbing his swollen hands together, he said, “This is better than I expected. Yes, very good.” He waved his hand again. “Make any changes you feel necessary. Fire and hire. Do whatever it takes to make my home your home.”

Lucky adjusted himself in the chair, wishing the housekeeper would hurry up with the Scotch. His back hurt like a son of a bitch, and lately it was taking a lot more sauce to dull the pain.

“It’s no secret that Carlo Talupa named Moody Trafano as my heir.”

Lucky nodded. “My men tell me he’s been smiling for weeks. He’s also become a regular at the Shedd in anticipation of his takeover.”

“Such a shame for Carlo to die so tragically.” Vito’s words didn’t match his casual shrug. “His unfortunate death puts Moody Trafano out in the cold and now allows me to name my own heir.”

There was still an ongoing investigation into the recent murder of Carlo Talupa. He’d been whacked and left in the back seat of a junked car at a salvage garage. He’d been missing for four days before he’d been found.

The police had no suspects, but Lucky didn’t need to sift through Carlo’s enemy list to know who had fired six bullets into the Chicago mob boss’s head.

“You know Moody Trafano is a man without honor. A greedy moron.” Vito’s lips curled. “Weeks ago I explained this to Carlo, but he wasn’t interested in my measure of his choice. I can only guess that he was honoring some deal he made with Vinnie.”

Moody Trafano was Vincent D’Lano’s bastard son. They were both slippery snakes looking for easy money and a paved road to the top of the syndicate ladder.

“If Carlo was alive, we would not be having this discussion,” Vito conceded. “Moody would be still celebrating his elevated position.”

“Then we can thank fate,” Lucky said blandly, “for Carlo’s timely death.”

Vito puffed on his cigar and the room turned blue with smoke. “Fate. It is a hard word to define, huh?”

Lucky shrugged off the question.

“My father was born in Palermo. When he settled in Detroit, he hoped life would be good, but it was hard for him. I remember going to bed night after night hungry, rubbing my belly. I vowed when I got older and could work, never to be hungry again. I worked two jobs at age fourteen. Sixteen-hour days on the docks bought me food and eventually a home of my own. Respect. Years later I came here and bought the steel mill. I never went hungry after that, and neither did the men I recruited from the waterfront. Hungry men. Good men down on their luck. The harder they worked, the more I fed them. The loyalty of hardworking men…it is a winning combination, huh?”

Lucky agreed, but again said nothing.

“I learned all of my men’s names and the names of their wives and children. I sent groceries to their homes. Bought gifts for their children at Christmas. I no longer visit the mill, but I still know my men by name. I still send food and gifts to their families. I have heard that you also believe in rewarding loyalty this way. That your men follow you out of love, as well as fear. A true mafioso knows that respect and honor is his responsibility, not his choice.

“Some say you enjoy watching a man bleed, Lucky. And it is true you honor the old ways and do what many have no stomach to do. But you are about more than spilling blood. You are feared because you know what it means to be a un’ uomo d’onore. A man of honor. Your loyalty to your brother and Jackson Ward at age fifteen will never be forgotten.”

“I did not know the price I would pay that night, old man. I assure you, I wasn’t thinking about the old ways in that alley. I went only to—”

“Protect your brother and friend from being killed by the local cricca,” Vito finished. “Yes, I know the story. Three against a gang of ten, wasn’t it?” One thick finger pointed to a scar half-hidden on Lucky’s neck by his collar-length black hair. “I am told that the scar on your back stretches four feet in length.”

“An exaggeration,” Lucky disputed, knowing for a fact that the scar fell short by only two inches.

“The story claims they held you down and cut you while your brother and friend were made to watch. Is it true that you shot three of the cricca after the fact, or is that an exaggeration, too?”

That part wasn’t an exaggeration. Lucky, however, wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d caused three mothers to grieve and wail at their sons’ funerals. Still, he had done what he had to do to save his brother and best friend.

The cricca thought they had killed him. Lucky had believed it, too. In what he thought were his last seconds on earth, he’d made one last stand to give Joey and Jackson a chance to survive.

He leaned back and slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans; inside his shorts, past his scarred belly to palm the second .22 he carried—the one responsible for saving all their lives that night in the alley. The gun that now permanently rode snug against him as comfortably as his wallet did in his back pocket.

Lucky pulled the .22 from his jeans and aimed it at Vito. “Only a fool surrenders all his weapons, old man. A dead fool.”

“Grande buono!” Vito shouted, then leaned his head back and roared in laughter until he began to cough. “This is why no one will ever forget that day. Why my men call you the guerriero. The warrior who is unafraid to bleed. It is true. You are the American Armanno.”

Lucky had grown up with the story about how the Cosa Nostra had been born and why the words this thing between us had been chosen as the bond that would forever unite the fathers of Sicily. Dante Armanno had been one of those fathers. A young man in Palermo who had fought like a lion the day the French soldiers had invaded the city and killed his three sons and raped his daughters.

As much as Lucky rejected the idea that he and Vito were a lot alike, they had similar views on family and work ethic. He suspected it was why thirty years ago Vito had paid twice what Dante Armanno was worth—the American estate built in tribute to the legend—when it had gone to auction.

Unable to stay in the chair a minute longer without a drink in his hand, Lucky shoved himself to his feet. He was worth 2.4 million, and yet he wore what he always wore—jeans, leather boots and his seasoned leather jacket, a testimony to where he had been and what he had seen over the years in Chicago.

At the narrow mullioned windows, he returned his gun to his jeans. It had started to snow again. His thoughts briefly returned to the warm Florida sunshine he’d enjoyed a week ago. The sunshine and the sea witch—as he’d come to think of her.

He turned from the window. “Does Vincent D’Lano know that you have decided to replace Moody as your heir?”

“Not yet. But when he finds out—” Vito grinned “—he’ll want to take a meat cleaver to both our necks. Since your brother rejected his daughter Sophia, Vincent has promised to tear down Masado Towers a brick at a time. I wonder what his threat will be once he learns you have stolen his ride to the top of the famiglia.”

“I have heard there are witnesses who are saying Vinnie masterminded my sister-in-law’s kidnapping. If that’s true, he’ll be sitting in jail a long time.” Lucky asked, “When you agreed that Moody would become your heir, did you ever speak to Vinnie about it? Or was it all arranged through Carlo?”

“Vincent came with Carlo once to gloat. But I never spoke to him or agreed to anything. Because I have no heir, Carlo decided I should turn over everything to his man of choice. A few weeks later in a letter, he warned me that if I took too long to die, he would have me carted off to a nursing home. It’s true Vinnie will want what Carlo promised him, but it’s not what I promised him.”

“And if the changes in the will aren’t what I requested and I decide to withdraw?” Lucky asked.

Vito pulled the will from his drawer. “It is done. My lawyer thinks a secret trust fund is suspect and I should demand to know whose name is on it, but I don’t intend to.”

Good, Lucky thought, because he had no intention of explaining his actions to anyone.

“I want the American Armanno as my heir. That is all I care about. That my men will be taken care of for their years of loyalty. I’m restocking the wine cellar with Macallan,” Vito reminded him. “I’ve asked Summ to remove my things from the master bedroom so you can take control even before I die. I’m stepping down the minute your signature is on the papers. Tonight you will become CEO of Tandi Inc. and sole owner of Dante Armanno.”

“I don’t want your bed, old man.”

“Since you have toured my house on your own, you’re aware that the master bedroom has a warm-water pool. It will be of use to you when you start your recovery.”

“My recovery?” Lucky’s black eyebrows arched.

“I’ve had a discussion with your doctor. He’s concerned about your continued delays in having the back surgery he recommended. He is afraid there may already be permanent nerve damage. As I said, I want the America Armanno as my heir, the toughest soldato in the city. But I wonder if that were tested today, if we would find it true.”

Lucky never made promises he couldn’t keep or claims that weren’t within his power to guarantee. In truth, he knew he wasn’t a hundred percent. Hadn’t been for months.

“If your memory fails you, I will refresh it. Days ago I offered my assistance to you and your brother. Joey was able to rescue his wife from that bastard, Stud Williams, because of my generosity. For this you agreed to repay me with a favor of my choice. I have made my choice. You as my son. At least on paper.”

A soft knock at the door sent Lucky back to the chair, licking his lips.

“Come in, Summ,” Vito said. “I believe you met my housekeeper days ago.”

When the door opened, a small Japanese woman entered the study with a bright blue parrot riding on her shoulder. Anxious for his requested Scotch, Lucky was disappointed to see the woman carrying a teapot and two stone cups on a bamboo tray.

“It looks like the wax in your ears is again causing you a hearing problem, Summ,” Vito grumbled. “We ordered Scotch, not tea.”

“Hear fine. Drink Matcha tonight.” Her gaze found Lucky. “Tea in honor of wise decision to become wakai shujin.”

“What did she call me?”

“Young master,” Vito explained.

“Gwaak! Shoot the moron. Drop and roll! Gwaak!”

Lucky ducked as the parrot lifted off the woman’s shoulder and sailed to a perch in the corner of the room.

“That would be Chansu,” Vito explained. “He’s part of Summ’s ancestral family. A reincarnate, if you believe in that sort of thing. He and Summ come with the house.”

The housekeeper placed the tray on the desk. She was a petite woman, dressed in green silk pants and a high-collared tunic to match. She looked mid-thirties, though Lucky knew she was older. For years there was talk that Vito had an Asian mistress.

She moved her long black plaited braid off her shoulder. Poured the tea. “Matcha good.” Her eyes locked on Lucky. “You like.”

No, he wouldn’t, Lucky thought. Not if it tasted anything like it smelled. It reminded him of the stench that always clung to his neighbor’s dog after he came back from a sewer run chasing rats.

Any minute he was sure Vito would set the housekeeper straight and send her out the door for the ordered Scotch. To his disappointment, it never happened.

While the woman poured the tea, Vito said, “I took the liberty of informing Summ about your medical problems. It looks like she’s decided to aid your recovery in her own way. As you’ve already noticed, the tea smells like—”

“Roadkill,” Lucky acknowledged.

Vito chuckled. “It tastes no better. But if you can get it down, it will ease your pain. Two years ago my doctors sent me home to die. They told me my throat cancer was too advanced. The next day Summ started brewing the Matcha.” He accepted the cup of tea from his housekeeper. “After you sign the papers, we’ll toast your future as the new master of Dante Armanno. Then, I’ll tell you a story about your father. A story about the old days when Frank and I first became friends. Before he stole my wife and became my enemy.”

The sheer curtains moved and Elena glanced at the open door leading to the veranda. A balmy breeze filtered in off the ocean, the surf making that familiar rushing noise her mother, Grace, loved so much, the one she claimed eased her pain and lulled her to sleep at night.

“What is it, Lannie? Have I been moaning again?”

Elena had been standing next to the white wicker bed for a long five minutes watching her mother sleep. “No, Madre,” she said softly, leaning down to gently kiss Grace’s forehead. “I just came to check on you.”

Grace tried to raise her hand, but the attempt was met with an exhausted sigh.

“It’s all right.” Elena rescued her mother’s hand and gently squeezed. “Everything is fine.”

Four weeks ago Grace had suffered another stroke. It was the second in a year, the fifth in the past ten. The numerous strokes, the doctor explained, were caused from the accident her mother had incurred before Elena was born more than twenty years ago.

The accident had destroyed her mother’s memory, along with her beauty. Elena couldn’t remember a time during her childhood when Grace wasn’t dealing with an excruciating headache or sleeping off the effects of a sedative to battle the daily pain she lived with.

“Your father brought me a new silk scarf. Ann helped me put it on. She doesn’t do as nice a job as you do, Lannie, but she’s getting the hang of it.”

Ann was Grace’s new live-in nurse. Elena eyed the lavender silk turban on her mother’s head. “It matches your nightgown perfectly. From what I can see, I agree. Ann’s attempt looks like she’s improving. You look stunning.”

Grace’s eyes lit up. She loved compliments, even though she knew the scar that cut deep into her cheek had destroyed any chance of her being truly beautiful ever again. Still, the silk turbans she wore and the soft lingerie that draped her fifty-seven-year-old body salvaged a degree of her dignity.

Over the years Frank had gotten into a routine of sending monthly gifts in the mail when he was away. Grace’s favorite had been the colorful silk scarves. To make them more usable, Elena had come up with the idea to fashion them into turbans to cover the numerous scars on her mother’s head. Grace had loved the idea, and they’d had fun buying matching nightgowns and silk pant outfits to match the scarves.

“Your father retired from his job. Did he tell you?”

“He told me.”

“I’m so happy.”

In many ways Grace lived in a child’s fairy tale. She had no idea where Frank had spent his time for the past twenty-four years, and Elena hadn’t known, either. Until a few weeks ago.

“Rub my leg, would you, Lannie? It always feels so good. You have such magic in your hands.”

Elena reached for a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at Grace’s mouth. One of the strokes had paralyzed her right side, and she rarely knew when she was drooling.

The muscles in her right leg had atrophied, as well. Despite Elena’s concentrated efforts to slow the process down with massage therapy, the leg was shrinking.

She slid the hem up on her mother’s nightgown and began to massage the shriveled limb.

“I’m glad you suggested that Frank learn how to do this for me. He’s getting very good. He says he’s going to take over the job so you can have more free time. Would you like that, Lannie? You could take a vacation with some of your friends.”

“Maybe a short trip,” Elena agreed, knowing she would be taking one very soon. But she wouldn’t be going with friends.

“Guess what, Lannie? Frank says he’s going to take me out in the boat. And guess what else? He says we can go every day if I get stronger.”

“Then you need to eat,” Elena reminded her.

“Guess what else? Frank says…”

Grace fell asleep with Frank’s name on her lips. Twenty minutes later Elena left the room by way of the open door that led onto the sprawling oceanside villa’s veranda. As she headed for the long stairway, Frank’s voice stopped her.

“Elena.”

She turned to find him standing in the shadows.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.”

“It’s late.”

“I’ll take one of the dogs with me.” When that didn’t seem to appease him, she added, “I’ll ask Romano to accompany me.”

“You’ve been very distant since I told you about Chicago and…my other life.”

For years Elena had never questioned her father’s extensive traveling or the guards that patrolled their oceanside estate. She had believed that he was what he had claimed to be—a corporate salesman—and that the guards were just a cautionary measure because he was away so much. Days ago he’d revealed that he’d been living a double life, and that his true identity was not Frank Palazzo, but Frank Masado. His occupation: a capo in the Chicago Italian mafia.

Chin raised, Elena asked, “If Mother could remember her life before the accident, would she want to return to Chicago?”

The question brought Frank out of the shadows. He wore a white linen shirt and black pants, and with the black patch covering his right eye, he looked very much like the mobster he claimed to be.

“You said you were born in Chicago. Did my mother grow up there, too? Is that where you met her?”

“Your mother was born in Detroit. She had one brother. He, along with her parents, died in a car accident when she was twenty. But none of that is important now. It happened a long time ago.”

“Mother’s thrilled you’ve retired. Retired from your salesman position, that is. How long do you intend to keep that lie going?”

“There is no reason to tell her differently. I am retired, Elena. I can’t go back to Chicago. I’m dead as far as the organization knows. Dead and buried at Rose-wood Cemetery. For years I wanted to be here with you and your mother, but I didn’t know how to make that happen. Not until my sons came up with a plan to fake my death.”

“Oh, yes, my mystery brothers.”

“I know that was a shock, Elena, learning that I had another family, but my life was not my own for many years. I did what I had to do to keep my family from being destroyed. Both families. My sons, and you and your mother.”

Elena had been stunned when she’d first learned that Frank’s other life included two adult sons, who were also a part of the mafia. On top of that, Frank had told her that there had been a contract put out on him.

“For your mother’s sake, Elena, you must try to understand the situation. Accept it and forget it.”

“I’m trying to understand. I just need more information for that to happen.”

“Staging my death was a genius idea. I owe Joey and Lucky a great debt for finding me a way out. My sons were right. There was only one way out for me. I had to die in order to live.”

Elena studied the man who, for twenty-four years, had allowed her to call him Father and believe it was true. She gazed at his ruggedly handsome face, then the black eye patch, and suddenly another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Rocked by the significance of her revelation, she brought her hand to her throat.

“What is it, Elena? What’s wrong?”

“Your eye… Since I was little you’ve worn that patch. Oh, God! Is that it? Did someone in the organization do that to you? Did they hurt my mother, too?”

For years she had silently questioned her mother’s so-called accident. By the look on Frank’s face, she had been right to be suspicious.

“Mother didn’t have an accident, did she? That’s why you brought her here, isn’t it? The reason for the guards? Why you became two people? You said it’s complicated. Why is that? Is Mother supposed to be dead, too? And me? What kind of complication am I?”

She saw him stiffen, saw that he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his big hands. He shifted his body, which put his face in shadow again. “I’ve told you what you need to know. What’s important for you to know, Elena. The rest will only make you—”

“What? Afraid? Ask more questions? Questions like, who am I?”

He turned quickly. “You are Elena Donata Palazzo. My daughter. A beautiful young woman with a bright future ahead of her.”

Elena played along. “And in this bright future will I have children?”

“Of course, if you wish.”

“So if I have children, are you suggesting that I lie to them as you are lying to me right now?”

She watched his jaw clench.

“In other words, Frank,” she went on, “who should I name when I tell my children who their grandfather is? You, the only father I have ever known? Or my real father, the man whose blood runs through my veins?”

His mouth moved, but no words came out. As if he was paralyzed both in mind and body, he just stood there looking angry and formidable.

Only, Elena wasn’t afraid. Frank might look capable of snapping her neck, but he had never shown an ounce of violence toward her. He hadn’t even swatted her butt as a child when she’d deserved it.

“I know you’re not my father,” she said softly. “So don’t try to placate me with another lie. I know my blood is not your blood. Unfortunately the records at the hospital don’t list whose blood it is.”

“Elena—”

“No.” She held up her hand. “No more games.”

“This was never a game.”

Elena studied her father. No, not her father, the man who had posed as her father for twenty-four years. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Elena, please.”

“You know, don’t you?” Against her best attempt to keep her emotions in check, Elena fought tears. “Tell me the truth! Do you know him?”

“Yes. I know him.”

“But you’re not going to tell me his name, are you? If you never wanted to play this game, end it now.”

He shook his head. “Non posso.”

“You can’t, or won’t?”

“He doesn’t know you exist. He can never know.”

Tears on her cheeks, Elena started down the stairs.

“Elena!”

She didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Frank followed her. “I was there the day you were born,” he called out. “You are my daughter. Maybe not by blood, but I have loved you the same as I love my sons. Will forever love you as my daughter.”

Elena spun back around, the ocean breeze swirling her white skirt about her shapely calves. Tossing her midnight-black hair out of her eyes, she said, “You should have told me years ago, Papa. I would have found a way to understand. You should have trusted me enough. Loved me enough!”

“Maybe you would have understood. Your real father would not have. And if your curiosity had led you to him…” He shook his head. “You’re right, your mother is also dead in Chicago, as I am. That is what has kept her safe for twenty-four years. I’m sorry, Elena, but I couldn’t tell you the truth years ago, and I still can’t.”