Footsteps (17 page)

With Trey here, though, he couldn’t let the
argument go on. So he called out, “Pop? You around?”

A sharp silence chopped off the quarrel,
then Luca yelled, “Kitchen!”

Carlo smiled down at Trey, who’d heard
enough that his little brow had wrinkled. “I bet Pop-Pop’s hungry,
huh?”

“Yes but we didn’t bring a sabbitch for
Uncle Luca.”

“Well, I bet he has his own sandwich.”

“Okay, if he won’t be mad like Pop-Pop is
mad.”

Dammit. “Pop-Pop isn’t mad, and Uncle Luca
won’t be, either. You know sometimes we get excited and talk too
loud. It’s okay. Come on.” Hating the way Trey had suddenly become
reluctant, his head down, Carlo led him to the large kitchen, which
was nearly complete.

His brother and father faced each other
across the wide center island, which would soon be topped with
stainless steel. For now, papers were strewn over the denuded tops
of the cabinetry that made up the island. Both wore bigger versions
of Trey’s hardhat, red with the Pagano & Sons logo in black, a
little map of Italy, striped like the Italian flag, surrounding the
ampersand. They were obviously angry. When Carlo Sr. saw Trey,
though, his face relaxed completely into a sincere, loving
grin.

“There’s my little
paisano
! Come give
Pop-Pop a hug!”

Trey ran and did just that. “We brought you
a sabbitch. And chips! And a pickle!” He looked over at his uncle.
“Not for you, Uncle Luca.”

Luca laughed and patted his hard, cut belly,
a white t-shirt spread snugly across it. “That’s okay, bub. I’m
good.” After locking eyes with Carlo for a second, he added, “You
want to bring your lunch and come with me? I see you brought your
tools. You think we can find something around here needs
hammering?”

Trey squirmed free of his grandfather.
“YEAH! I have a drewscriver, too!”

“Well, bring your lunch, and let’s get
working!” With a meaningful look at Carlo, Luca took Trey off.

Carlo turned and handed a lunchbox to his
father. “What’s up, Pop?”

“Not your business, Junior. You’re not part
of the company.”

Ouch. “I’m not asking about that
specifically. But something’s going on with you lately.

His father only glared at him. Then, with a
terse nod, he opened a lunchbox and pulled out the sandwich, then
dug down for the bottle of water at the bottom. “More interested in
what’s goin’ on with you. You don’t listen anymore. Just do your
own thing. Regardless of the consequences. To everybody.”

“You’re talking about Bina.”

“Auberon’s wife. Yeah.” He bit into his
sandwich. Around his mouthful, he said, “You know we’re putting a
bid in for one of his smaller projects—that condo redevelopment on
College Hill.”

“Pop! I’m supposed to let him hurt her so
that you can get a job?”

His father’s brown eyes went black. “No,
boy. You’re supposed to keep your nose—and your dick—out of his
marriage because he could flatten us with a wave of his damn
hand—and do
your family
real hurt, too, if he wants to. You
know he stops at nothing—
nothing
—when he’s crossed. What if
he goes for Trey? That worth it?”

He would keep Trey in the bosom of his
family until this was done. Trey would be safe. “I went to the
Uncles. They’ll help.”

“Shit. Shit. I asked you to think on
that.”

“I did. And I made the call. It was the
right thing to do.” He was sure of it. He had to be sure of it.
Doubt at this point was folly.

“That’s never the right thing to do.”

“Didn’t you see her, Pop? Don’t you see? I
can’t leave her trapped there if I can do something to help. And
maybe our family is the only help that would actually work. He’s
Teflon, but he’s not Kevlar.”

Carlo Sr. sighed heavily and dropped the
rest of his sandwich, still partially wrapped in the wax paper he
preferred over plastic, into his lunchbox. “She’s…sweet. And I saw
the marks. Auberon is a son of a bitch, and I’m sorry for her. I
just don’t see how she tips the scales against your family.”

“She needs me.”

His father’s fight had deflated. “Trey needs
you.
I
needed you. You walked away from me.”

“Jesus, Pop. What is
up
? That’s old
news. It’s been years. Why is it eating at you so hard again? I’m
here. We’re working together. I’m just on the other side. This is
what I love.”

But his father wasn’t ready to tell him what
was going on. He simply shook his head and picked the rest of his
sandwich back up.

As Carlo tried to figure out what to say
next, his cell rang. He pulled it from his pocket—Peter.

“Hey, Pete.”

“Carlo, you gotta get back. Right now.” His
friend’s voice was tight with stress.

Carlo had been leaning against the island;
now he stood straight. “What’s wrong?”

“The office, man. Somebody broke in. Tore it
to pieces.”

~oOo~

Pagano-Cabot had one-half of the third floor
of a small, brick building in downtown Providence—not quite in the
heart of downtown, but close enough to feel its pulse. The first
floor of the building housed two trendy boutiques. The second floor
was a small legal practice and an accounting firm. The other half
of the third floor was vacant.

When Carlo and Peter had first seen the
property, the whole third floor had been offered as one space. It
was more than they needed or could afford, and they’d worked out a
build-to-suit deal to take half instead. Their landlord had divided
the space with drywall.

The vandals had come through the drywall,
which had handily circumvented Carlo and Peter’s alarm system. And
then they’d had a field day.

Standing in the midst of the rubble, Peter
at his side, trying to listen to the cop’s instructions about what
they’d probably need to make an insurance claim, Carlo thought the
place was a near total loss. It looked like a rave had happened. Or
a riot. By exceedingly angry Huns. From wall art to furniture, from
Peter’s Red Sox bobblehead collection to their electronics,
everything was destroyed. There was piss and shit on the walls and
floor. Spray paint over the windows.

Worst of all, Carlo’s most recent drafts had
been shredded. Into confetti.

Though he moved to digital design about
halfway through his process, he could not find inspiration using a
program. He had to start the old-fashioned way, with paper, pencil,
compass, triangle, T-square. He needed to feel his designs with his
hands. To see them with his fingers as much as his eyes.

The work he’d moved to digital was archived
in the Cloud, so none of that was lost, but all the work in the
inspiration stage—his favorite part—was in a pile at his feet.
Unsalvageable. Weeks of work, just gone. Afraid to look, knowing
what he’d find, he stepped around a corner and leaned into the
modeling room. Yep. The foamcore model he’d just finished for a job
they were set to present the final plan on next week was nothing
more than apocalyptic rubble now.

He dropped to a squat, his face in his
hands.

“I’m sorry man, so sorry.” Peter squeezed
his shoulder.

Peter was an architect, too, but his
strength was not in design itself. He’d never have made a career on
his own, and his career at Supratecture, the large firm they’d both
been working for, had been on life support. What Peter was expert
at was seeing into the gaps. Though he couldn’t visualize a really
original building on his own, he could look at someone else’s
design and see a potential weakness—or an opportunity for something
even better. And he was personable and extroverted. He enjoyed the
parties and the lunches and all the things Carlo hated. He was a
great wingman, in life and in business. Carlo was the talent; Peter
was the emcee. They both knew it, and they were both comfortable in
their roles. Being the business head of their little enterprise had
taken a lot of pressure from Peter—and from Carlo. In their
partnership, each played to his strengths.

Carlo stood and went to the crushed model.
“I’m going to have to rebuild this. Like yesterday.” He’d have to
cut his week in the Cove short. And give up sleep.

“I’ll get an extension on the presentation.
They’re not going to can us so fast this late in the game, and
this”—he swept his arm around the room—“is the best excuse I can
think of for needing more time. I’ll get you a week, at least.” A
dry laugh rasped from his throat. “We’re going to need to get
serious about that 3D printer fund.”

Trying to regroup, get his thoughts in order
and figure out what to do next, Carlo sighed. “Okay. I’m gonna pick
up some supplies and head to the loft. I can work out of my office
at home for now. I’ll ask one of my brothers to drive Trey back
in.” Fuck. He had no way of getting hold of Sabina to let her know
he wouldn’t be around if and when she sought him out again. The
thought of not seeing her for God knew how long hurt almost as much
as the thought that they might have just lost their business. Fuck.
He hoped the Uncles were moving quickly.

~oOo~

About an hour later, he came off the
elevator at his loft, his arms laden with supplies to rebuild the
model. He set everything down and slid his key into the deadbolt
lock, but was surprised when turning it did not move the bolt. He
turned it in the locking direction instead, and felt the bolt
engage. It had been unlocked. He turned it back and tried the knob.
It turned freely.

Had it not been for the current state of the
office, he would have thought little of this development. He would
have assumed that Natalie was there. But his nerves were on edge.
Stepping back, still really more curious than alarmed, he looked
closely at the door. It showed no signs of force. It was simply
closed and unlocked. Maybe Natalie
was
here? But, thinking
more about it, why would she be? She had the week off. She knew
they were out of town. There was nothing for her to do here.

He left his supplies leaning against the
wall and opened the door. “Nat? You here?”

Silence. He stepped into the hallway. At
first, everything looked right—the credenza, the bowl in which he
always dropped his keys and change, the mirror above it. Then, at
the end of the hall, he saw a pile of fluffy clouds. The stuffing
from his couch. Wishing he had a weapon at hand, Carlo walked
slowly down the short hall and into the main space of his loft.

Whoever had partied at the office had had
their after-prom here. The destruction was as complete, if not even
more vigorous, here, in his
home
. Where his child lived. No
longer worried about whether there was someone still there, he ran
to the other rooms—his office, trashed. His bedroom, trashed.
Trey’s room. Demolished. No other word for it. His toys had been
destroyed, the contents of his dresser and closet torn to pieces.
His mattress had been slashed open, long cuts like wounds striping
the surface, showing the guts of foam and cotton matting.

The words DEAD KID were sprayed in dripping
red paint across the solar system Carlo had painted on the wall
behind his bed.

And then Carlo understood.

He called Luca and made sure his son was
safe. Then he called Peter. When he answered, Carlo asked, without
preamble, “Pete, were you home last night? Have you been home?”

“Yeah. Quiet night. Came from there to work.
What?”

“Your house is okay?”

“Yeah. Carlo, what? You okay?”

He hung up and dialed Luca to make sure that
Trey was still with him and that he would keep him. No one would
fuck with Luca. Carlo didn’t give details for his worry, and Luca
didn’t push. He would push later, Carlo knew, when they were face
to face, but then he would be glad to explain.

Next he called Carmen, hoping to ask her to
check on Bina, but got her voice mail. He left a message to the
same effect, asking her to call.

And then he called his Uncle Ben. It was not
acceptable to check in on the progress of a deal, but this was
information they needed.

Because Carlo was sure that James Auberon
was behind all this. And that meant he knew. He knew, and had
reacted this way. And that meant that Bina was in much more danger
than he’d even known.

Sabina had been born in Buenos Aires into a
comfortable, middle-class existence. Her father had been a business
executive of some sort; what he had done while he was gone every
day had always been something of a mystery to her young mind, but
he’d dressed in nice suits and carried a briefcase, wherever he’d
gone. Her mother had taught piano lessons in their home. She’d had
a brother, Eduardo, who’d been four years younger than she.

Her memories of that life were faded, sanded
away by time and distance, but she remembered it as a comfortable,
happy, unremarkable life. They’d had a pet cat. She’d had a
hamster. They’d taken holidays. Her parents had held and attended
dinner parties, and Sabina had had sleepovers with friends. Her
little brother had been a pest.