The Pregnancy Affair

Tate tried to take some comfort in that. Even so, it was hard to imagine James Carson involved in corruption. His memories of his father were hazy, but they evoked only feelings of affection and warmth. His dad, from what he recalled, was a good guy.

“Anyway,” Renata continued, “because your father never fingered anyone in the Bacco family proper—in fact, his agreement with the feds stated he would absolutely not, under any condition, incriminate his family—Joey the Knife never sought a vendetta. He really loved his son,” she added. “I think a part of him kind of understood why your father did what he did, so he could be with his son. But even more important, I think Joey really loved you—his first grandson. And since you had nothing to do with what your father did, he wanted you to come back and take your rightful place in the family.”

As what? Tate wondered. What kind of nickname would suit the lifestyle he’d assumed instead? Bottom Line Bacco? Joey the Venture Capitalist? Somehow those just didn’t have the same ring. Or did they? Renata had just said his grandfather had businesses. Maybe there was a bit of Bacco in Tate yet.

“You said my grandfather had businesses?” he asked.

She withdrew another collection of papers from her portfolio. “Several. He wants to put you in charge of Cosa Nostra, for one thing.”

“Yeah, you just pretty much said that when you told me he wants me to be the new Iron Don.”

She shook her head. “No, not that Cosa Nostra. That alleged one, I mean. Cosa Nostra is the name of a chain of Italian restaurants he owned up and down the Jersey shore.”

Tate took this page from her, too, and quickly scanned the figures. Unless Cosa Nostra was a three-star Michelin restaurant that served minestrone for five hundred bucks a bowl, its profits were way too high to be on the up-and-up.

“Yeah, these places look completely legitimate,” he said wryly.

“By all accounts, they are. Joey bought them with the proceeds from his waste-management business and his construction company.”

Yep. Totally legit.

“Since your grandfather’s death in the spring, everything’s been run by his second in command, who—” she hesitated for a moment “—who’s married to your father’s sister.”

Tate remembered then that Renata had mentioned there were other members of the “immediate” Bacco family. He’d been an only child all his life and had been under the impression that both of his parents were, too. At least, that was what his mother had always told him to explain why he didn’t have any aunts or uncles or cousins, the way all his classmates did.

Of course, all these new revelations might also explain why she’d always seemed to go out of her way to ensure that he stayed an only child—not just in the birth sense but in the social sense, too. She’d never encouraged him to make friends when he was growing up and had, in fact, been wary of anyone who tried to get too close. Although he’d had a handful of friends at school, she’d never let him invite any of them home or allowed him to play at their houses. He’d never had birthday parties or sleepovers, hadn’t been able to join Cub Scouts or play team sports or attend summer camp.

His childhood hadn’t exactly been happy, thanks to his solitary state. He’d always thought his mother was just overprotective. Now he wondered if she’d spent the rest of her life watching their backs. He wished he could ask her about all this, but he’d lost her to cancer when he was in college. His stepfather—who might or might not have known about anything—had been quite a bit older than his mother and had died less than a year later. There was no one around who could verify any of this for Tate. No one except Renata Twigg.

“I have other family members?” he asked.

She nodded. “Your father had two sisters, both older than him. Denise is married to Joseph Bacco’s second in command, Nicholas DiNapoli, aka Nicky the Pistol.”

“My aunt is mobbed up, too?”

“Allegedly. His other sister, Lucia, is married to Handsome Mickey Testa, the manager of one of Joey’s casinos.”

Did anyone in the mob not have a nickname? “Do I have cousins by them?” Tate asked.

She flipped another page. “Yes. Denise and Nicky have Sal the Stiletto, Dirty Dominic and... Oh. This is different.”

“What?”

“Angie the Flamethrower. Gotta give a girl credit for that. And Lucia and Mickey have Concetta.”

“Who I assume is Connie the something.”

“Well, right now she’s Connie the economics major at Cornell. But I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

“So my entire family are mobsters.”

“Alleged mobsters. And an economics major.”

Renata gazed at him with what could have been compassion or condemnation. He had no idea. She was very good at hiding whatever she was thinking. Well, except for a couple of times when he was pretty sure she’d been thinking some of the same things he’d been thinking, most of them X-rated. Her espresso eyes were enormous and thickly lashed, her dark hair was pulled back into the most severe hairstyle he’d ever seen and her buff-colored suit was conservative in the extreme.

Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the image she presented to the world had nothing to do with the person she really was. Although she looked professional, capable and no-nonsense, there was something about her that suggested she wanted to be none of those things.

“So this law firm you work for,” Tate said. “Does it handle a lot of, ah, alleged mob work?”

She shook her head. “Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg is about 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.