Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) Read Free

mom’s elder brother. It’s been twenty-five years to the day since he and two of his brothers tortured and questioned my kidnapper for hours. Afterward, my uncle put a gun in my hand, instructing me in broken English how to fire it at close range. I aimed the Colt at the head of my captor. My uncles explained it was a matter of pride and quoted the Bible and Dirty Harry.
    I was still in kindergarten when I executed my first target. There was no eye for an eye. Santo didn’t rescue me, he created a monster.
    Wrapped in a blanket and splattered in blood, I was placed inside an idling truck. From the cab, I brushed away bits of skull from my face and learned about the texture of brain matter. Outside, yards away, my uncles dug a grave. They dumped the body minus hands and a head in that hole, spitting on it before they set fire to a ransacked cabin in the backwoods between Athens and Atlanta.
    Santo’s wrists aren’t cuffed and his feet aren’t shackled. I hear the muffled voice of another man ask about PanCorp Banks, then I see it’s Judge Bloomberg exiting the john, zipping his fly followed by a woman buttoning her top. The possibility of my uncle imprisoned doesn’t compute. This is an existential crisis that blasts open and hits me. The Saint isn’t being held. It’s more encompassing than a grand jury indictment.
    The fact that a federal judge with a lifetime appointment is shooting the breeze with The Saint makes this whole event surreal in a heartbeat. The detail that Bloomberg just shot his wad into a woman with a patch over her left eye is overkill.
    Wearing a dark suit and a Cheshire grin, Santo sits sipping espresso as Bloomberg takes a seat. It feels like I’ve been electrocuted but I don’t react.
    The woman wearing a patch asks me, “ Caffé? Limone ?”
    I nod at the offer of espresso and murmur, “ Grazie .” A barrage of questions storm my brain. Each vies for first place on what is going on. But I’m hyperaware that the door to this meeting room is wide open, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s only a stupid fish can’t keep his mouth shut.
    “Damiano.” My uncle quietly observes me. “My sister is proud and I see why. You’ve grown into a man. Your father would be honored.”
    I smile, but there is no mirth. The clock has just begun to tick, and I’m aware without my consent I’ve been drawn into a highly sophisticated game. The stakes are beyond life or death.
    Weighing all that he has both said and not, I lean down and hug my uncle. “Santo. It’s been too long.”
    “Yes, but necessary. My absence from the States has permitted me distance. Useful in assessing a situation.”
    Mom hasn’t visited Calabria in decades, nor does she discuss her brothers, cousins, friends, childhood or our 'Ndràngheta lineage. It’s as if they had never existed and I don’t press. Except for her sister and my cousin, all connections to our Calabrian family, for the record, have been severed.
    As a kid, I’d assumed she blamed Santo for my dad’s death. But with the government confiscating any and all assets owned by my father, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the funding source for the large gated house where we lived, the army of servants (some in dark attire brandishing poorly hidden weapons), or my tuition to Exeter came from The Saint. Unseen and not heard from in years.
    But he’s seen Mom or spoken to her recently, and must’ve convinced her to keep his reappearance a secret.Distinctly, I’m all too aware of the web he’s weaving.
    “Why are we meeting here?” I ask in a monotone.
    “Our host.” He inclines his head then says, “Judge Bloomberg, may I present my nephew, Atticus Damian Stone.”
    “We’ve met,” I offer. Bloomberg was appointed by Nixon in the 70s. He hails from Philly. A conservative and connected.
    “That we have.” Bloomberg sets down his cup and motions to the empty chair. “And when we cross paths again, we won’t ever