Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

“You’re a good friend and a good man,” I said. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

It was almost noon. The talk with Papa loomed. Time to do what was in front of me.

He answered on the fifth ring.

“Are you busy, Papa?

“Preparing antipasto salad for lunch. There’s plenty for two, with leftovers for Terry whenever she finishes her parish visits.”

Papa’s antipasto was a structure of delight, the crisp romaine covered with genuine Genoa salami, Giardiniera, green and black olives, roasted peppers, marinated artichokes, all covered with his own blend of balsamic vinegar and Lucini Italia extra virgin olive oil. Despite my trepidation, my mouth watered. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I told him.

When I entered the back door, which led into the kitchen, a sliced loaf of Sciortino’s Italian bread rested on the counter, with a nearby dish of seasoned melted butter and olive oil. I divested myself of cold weather gear, gave Papa a kiss on the cheek, and washed my hands at the kitchen sink. The salad bowl beckoned from the kitchen table. Papa reserved the dining room for Sunday meals and special occasions.

“Shall I prepare the bread?” I asked.

“Not yet. Mia cara figlia, what have you been up to now?” His voice was stern, but soft.

When I was fifteen, Papa caught me and Sam Whittier making out in Sam’s car after a movie. Papa didn’t yell or berate. Instead, he sent Sam home with a warning that he and Sam’s father would soon have a talk, and he sat me down at the kitchen table. I felt like the Angie of so long ago, who had caused her papa worry and concern, and who was facing a parental rebuke.

“Papa,” I said, “I’m here to talk about a difficult matter. It seems, though, that you already have an inkling of what has happened. Is that so?”

He inclined his head and gestured to the gleaming new espresso maker on the counter, a Christmas gift from me. “Before we sit, un caffè?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

While the machine buzzed, I waited, wondering what Papa already knew. There was no reason to hide the facts from him, I decided. I would be forthright about Hank and the Severson connection.

Papa carefully placed the cups on the table and sat. “This morning, I received a call from the Chicago consigliere, who had been called earlier by a contact in the South Philly Mob. Marco would not give me the name. He told me of your involvement with Tommaso Severson.” Papa took a sip of the strong, hot brew. “He also advised me that beatings at an earlier age might have curbed my headstrong daughter.” He sighed. “But I knew that such actions would only drive her farther toward whatever it was she sought.”

I gave silent thanks that Papa’s call was from the trusted counselor of the Chicago head, and not the boss himself. As for beatings … well, Papa never touched me in anger. His reprimands were bad enough.

“I came here to explain, Papa.”

“And you could not come here yesterday to tell me, so that I would not be caught unawares this morning?”

I spread my hands. “The events and their aftermath were, well, time-consuming, and they involved others, whose welfare I had to consider. That, and meeting with the police, took up my afternoon and the morning. I’m so sorry if that put you in a difficult place.”

He shrugged. “I am in no trouble. Which is more than I can say for you. This involves the anonymous man we spoke of?”

I nodded.

“Since he is now dead, perhaps you can tell me the whole story.”

I gave him the facts, without mentioning Spider or Bram. Since Papa knew and accepted Bobbie as my intern, I didn’t edit that part.

“You were in grave danger, there in the open with un assassino shooting at Severson, who stood mere feet from you. My father’s heart sinks at the thought. I could not stand to bury you, Angelina. It would kill me.”

The undercurrent of anguish came through from his calm statement. I thought of my own beloved children and grandchildren. It would kill me to bury any of them. “Papa,” I said, reaching for his hands, “I can only say that I had no notion there would be a threat from … outside. I thought any threat would come from Severson, though he didn’t strike me as a violent man. Still, I was armed and prepared for that. I’m so sorry to cause you such concern.”

“Bene,” he said, ending the conversation. “I will prepare the bread for the oven. Let us eat.” He started to rise.

The easy part of the conversation was over. Now came the hard part. “Papa, before that, I have to ask you something that is difficult.”

He sat again. “Go on,” he said.

“You see, Henry Wagner went into hiding, all those years ago, because he saw a face in a deli in Milwaukee, a man who knew him as Severson. He was never sure if the man spotted him, but he wouldn’t take the chance, both for his own sake and for his family’s. Was he right to run? Did they see him?”

“They did not tell me that, but I doubt it. They would have applied to Chicago for permission to enter Wisconsin and hunt him down, if they had known. It would not be a problem. The Chicago Outfit would have contacted me and I would have agreed.”

I gave a little start.

“I told you before, Angelina, that a man cannot leave the organization he has vowed to.”

Even priests and nuns can gain a dispensation from their vows to God, I thought. However, Papa’s mindset could not be disputed.

“That brings me to the tough question. How did they know to hire a contracted hit man and how did that man know to follow me? The only ones aware of Severson’s other identities were me, Bobbie, an associate who helped me with internet searches and whom I trust with my life, and Marcy Wagner. I cannot believe that any