“How?” I asked, both because he wanted me to and because I wanted to know where he was in life, how he could be here, and now, so that I could avoid him forevermore.
That slick smear of a smile again. “I moved to America when your mother and Elena did, just to keep an eye on things. Ended up hooking up with some old friends from my youth. Guy named Thomas ‘Gunner’ Coonan took me under his wing, joined me up to his successful enterprises.”
Of course. Everyone in New York knew who Kelly was; the most successful Irish crime boss since Coonan in the 70s.
“You joined the Irish mob.”
Seamus grinned from ear to ear, opening his palms in a gesture of smug nonchalance. “What can I say? I got a head for business, and they recognized greatness in me the way the Camorra couldn’t.”
“Dio mio, Dad,” I said, forgetting myself for a moment. “Do the Camorra know you changed sides?”
“I was never part of their outfit,” he argued. “Just beholden to it. ’S not a problem.”
I very much doubted that. The Irish and Italian mafia in New York were not friendly, and they never had been. Any excuse for conflict was flame to kerosene-soaked tinder.
“Why in the world would you practically kidnap me like this from an Italian held poker game then?” I demanded. “That’s just plain stupid.”
Or is it? His expression countered with the quirk of a red brow and twisted lips.
Oh.
I sighed, so exhausted by my own life, I thought I would faint from the strain. “You want to go to war with them.”
Seamus beamed at me, reaching out to pat me on the hand before I could pull away. “You always were such a smart girl. Taught you well, I did. Yes, things are escalating between the Camorra and the Cosa Nostra. It’s the perfect time to hit them while their down.”
“So again, you’re using me as a pawn.” The words were flat, two-dimensional, and plastic like fake currency in a children’s game.
Useless in the real world, but they still felt good to use.
His brow crinkled into a pleat like a checkmark, just like Elena’s and Giselle’s did. “Don’t be so dramatic. Two birds, one stone, carina. I’m multitasking.”
I couldn’t stop focusing on the hate growing inside me, poison like a weed, choking out all other thoughts and feelings until I felt consumed by it.
“You aren’t my real father,” I said, the words so cutting I thought for a moment they might really slice through his thick skin. “Did you know that?”
By the blank, unamused set of his features, I knew he hadn’t.
“Don’t play silly games,” he ordered, sitting back and righting himself.
“Amadeo Salvatore is my father,” I continued calmly. “You know him as capo Salvatore, head of the Camorra in Napoli.”
Seamus snorted derisively, but a muscle flexed in his jaw, betraying his unease.
I forged on, sliding my dagger between his ribs and twist, twisting. “Mama met him in the fish market one day, and they started an affair. He wanted her to leave, and she loved him, but she was too good and too scared to do it.” I paused, watched Seamus as he held his breath, confused and angry, unwilling to believe. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Sebastian and I look nothing like you while Elena and Giselle could be your carbon copies?”
“Not all children look like their fathers, Cosima,” he said drily, but his voice lacked conviction, and his eyes moved over me with X-ray focus, as if he could read the truth in my very bones.
“No,” I agreed easily. “But if you think about it for a minute, you might remember that Salvatore had very unique eyes too. Golden eyes. You might remember that despite all your infractions, the Camorra was relatively lenient with you…why do you think that was? Maybe because Salvatore had a soft spot for Mama and caved too often into her pleas to save your sorry arse? Maybe because you were a pseudo father, however poor, to the two children he would never be able to parent himself?”
I leaned forward, my voice a hiss, my eyes slitted like a snake to deliver the last of my venomous attack. “I know I was your greatest accomplish, Seamus. How does it feel to know that even that was never really yours?”
“Lies,” he barked meanly, but his eyes were wet with something softer than rage, and his mouth was pale with desperate tension. “That bastard lied to you, Cosima.”
“Yes, but not about this.” I leaned back, collected myself by smoothing down my dress and tossing my hair over my shoulder before I slid closer to the door and put my hand on the handle. “I’m not your daughter, Seamus, so you can stop ‘watching over’ me. I’m not your daughter, so you can stop the games. I’m not your daughter, and even if I was”—I smiled meanly, feeling my lips parted and pulled into a grotesque farce of good humour—“I would never want to see you again.”