as white-shoe a firm as you’re going to find. But, according to my father—who’s the current Twigg in the name—Joey the Knife and Bennett Tarrant’s father had some kind of shared history when they were young. No one’s ever asked what. But it was Bennett’s father who took him on as a client back in the sixties, and Bennett honored his father’s wish that he always look after Joey.”
“So Joey must have had some redeeming values then.”
“He loved his son. And he loved his grandson. I’d say that makes up for a lot.”
Tate looked down at the sheet that had his mother’s original information on it. She had been Isabel Danson before she married Joseph Jr.
When Renata saw where his attention had fallen, she told him, “For what it’s worth, your mother’s family wasn’t connected. Allegedly or otherwise.”
“Do I have family on that side, too?”
“I’m sorry, no. She was an only child.”
At least something his mother had told him was true.
“Her parents, both deceased now, were florists.”
Finally. Something beautiful to counter all the luridness of his heritage.
“So what do my aunts, uncles and cousins think of this?” Tate asked, looking up again. “Seems to me they might all be a little put off by Joey’s wanting a total stranger to come in and take over. Especially when that stranger’s father ratted out other members of the organization.”
“Right now, I’m the only person who knows you’re Joseph Anthony Bacco the Third,” Renata assured him. “Because of the delicate nature of the situation, I haven’t even told the senior partners of Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg who or where you are. Only that I found you and would contact you about Joey’s final wishes. I haven’t told the Baccos even that much.”
“And if I decide I’d just as soon not accept my grandfather’s legacy?” Tate asked.
Since it went without saying he wouldn’t be accepting his grandfather’s legacy. He wasn’t sure yet how he felt about accepting his grandfather’s family, though. The blood one, not the professional one. A lot of that depended on whether or not they were accepting of him. For all he knew, they were already dialing 1-800-Vendetta.
“The surviving Baccos were all aware of Joey’s wishes,” Renata said. “They’ve known all along that he wanted his missing grandson to be found and take over after his death. He never made any secret of that. But I don’t know how they felt about that or if they even expected anyone to ever be able to find you. If you don’t accept your grandfather’s legacy, then Joey wants everything to go to Denise and her husband so they can continue the tradition with their oldest son. That may be what they’ve been assuming would happen all along.”
“I don’t want to accept my grandfather’s legacy,” Tate said plainly.
“Then I’ll relay your wishes to the rest of the family,” Renata told him. “And unless you decide to approach them yourself, they’ll never know who or where you are. No one will. I’ll take the secret of your identity to my grave.”
Tate nodded. Somehow, he trusted Renata Twigg to do exactly that. But he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about his identity. As a child, he’d often fantasized about having a family. Just not one that was quite so famiglia. He’d be lying, though, if he said there wasn’t a part of him that was wondering what it would be like to be a Bacco.
“It’s my aunt’s and cousins’ birthright as much as it is mine,” Tate said. “They were a part of my grandfather’s life and lifestyle. And I—”
He halted there, still a little thrown by everything he’d learned. He searched his brain for something that might negate everything Renata had told him. But his memories of his father were hazy. The only clear ones were of the day he died. Tate remembered the police coming to their house, his mother crying and a guy in a suit trying to console her. As an adult looking back, he’d always figured the guy was from the insurance company, there to handle his father’s life-insurance policy or something. But after what Renata had told him, the guy might have been a fed, there to ensure that his mother was still protected.
He conjured more memories, out of sequence and context. His father swinging him in the ocean surf when he was very little. The two of them visiting an ancient-looking monkey house of some zoo. His father dancing him around in the kitchen, singing “Eh, Cumpari!,” a song Tate had never heard anywhere else except for when...
Oh, God. Except for when Talia Shire sang it in The Godfather, Part III.
“There are more photos,” he heard Renata say from what seemed a very great distance. “Joey had several framed ones of you and him on shelves in his office until the day he died.”
Tate looked at the photo in his hand again. The Iron Don honestly looked like he could be anyone’s grandfather—white hair and mustache, short-sleeved shirt and trousers, grinning at the boy in the picture as if he were his most cherished companion. There were no gold chains, no jogging suits, nothing to fit the stereotype at all. Just an old man happy to be with his family. Yet Tate couldn’t remember him.
On some level, though, a lot of what Renata said explained his memories. He couldn’t recall taking a long road trip anywhere until his mother married William Hawthorne. So how could he have been in the ocean when he was so young? Unless he’d lived in a state that had a coastline. Like New Jersey. And there were no ancient-looking monkey houses in this part of the country. But some zoos in the Northeast had lots of old buildings like that.
He looked at Renata Twigg. “I’m the grandson of a mobster,” he said softly. This time, the remark was a statement, not a question.
“Alleged mobster,” she qualified again, just as quietly.
“But real grandson.”
“Yes.”
So Tate really did have family out there with whom he would have grown up had things been different. He would have attended birthday parties and weddings and graduations for them. Vacationed with them. Played with them. He wouldn’t have spent his childhood alone. Strangely, if his father had gone into the family’s very abnormal business, Tate might have had a very normal childhood.
The pounding of footsteps suddenly erupted in the hall outside his office. Tate looked up just in time to see a man in a suit, followed by a harried Madison, come hurrying through the door. When he halted, the man’s jacket swung open enough to reveal a shoulder holster with a weapon tucked inside. Tate was reaching for his phone to hit 9-1-1 when his presumed assailant flipped open a leather case in his hand to reveal a badge with a silver star.
“Inspector Terrence Grady,” the man said. He reminded Tate of someone. An older version of Laurence Fishburne, maybe. “United States Marshals Service. Tate Hawthorne, you’ll have to come with me immediately.”
“Sir, he pushed right past me,” Madison said. “I tried to—”
“It’s all right, Madison,” Tate said as he stood.
Renata stood at the same time, though she didn’t cut quite as imposing a figure as Tate was trying to achieve himself. Actually, it was kind of hard to tell if she’d stood at all, because she barely came to his shoulder. Small
