Slapping his hands down on the wooden surface, Papa leaned toward me. “I have lived a lifetime in the Mafia. Is that what you think I am, Angelina? A man of disrepute?”
The question hung there as I struggled to phrase an honest, but respectful, answer. I knew that our relationship hung in the balance. “The papa I know, the man who raised me with love and supported me in every way that matters, is a man of honor. But there’s another part of your life that is hidden from me. I don’t know what that part of you is like.” I looked down. “I don’t want to know. I just want my papa.”
“It is not to your papa that you appeal. It is to Don Pasquale.” Never before had I heard such hardness in his words and his tones. “Can you acknowledge that?”
Could I, for Marcy’s sake, and the sakes of her children? I raised my eyes. “It’s a struggle, I admit, but yes. I acknowledge that it is Don Pasquale to whom I appeal.”
“Then Angelina, I honestly see no way to help, other than to advise you to leave this matter to fate.” He spread his hands. “All that my approach would accomplish is to heighten their awareness of the person you seek to protect.”
“Hell,” I muttered under my breath. I swallowed coffee as I struggled to swallow the reality of Henry Wagner’s predicament. “I feared that might be so, Papa, but I felt compelled to ask. His wife will find this very hard to accept.”
“She has built a new life without him?”
“Yes, from necessity. But she still cares for him, and she struggles to determine a path forward, now that she knows he is alive. She exists in a sort of limbo.”
“No honorable man would put a woman in that position.”
“You’re right. It’s angered me ever since I began to search for him.” I pushed my chair back and stood. “Maybe he could see no other way. Maybe he did it to protect his family. I don’t know.” I carried my cup to the sink and rinsed it, then placed it in the dishwasher. When I turned back, Papa—not Don Pasquale—waited.
“Angelina, piccola, I am still your papa.” He opened his arms and I rushed into them.
“Nothing can change that, papà mio.” Extreme relief rushed over me as I realized it was the truth.
Chapter 21
I beg of you… never assume an inner or an outer pose, never a disguise. — Gustav Mahler
The tension of the day washed over me when I arrived home and locked the door behind me. I lay down on the couch and fell asleep, waking around eight o’clock to darkness and hunger. I still hadn’t gotten to the grocery store, so carrot and celery sticks dipped in crunchy peanut butter, followed by a square of Ghirardelli dark chocolate with salted caramel, constituted my supper.
With a glass of sweet white wine at my side, I settled on the couch, opened my laptop and typed up the day’s notes—and what a day it was! Hank’s identity as Tommaso Severson, the painful talk with Marcy, followed by anxiety-provoking discussions with Bart and Papa.
According to the plan that Bobbie advanced, my next step was to contact Hank and find out if he would meet to discuss his family’s future. How should I approach him so that he wouldn’t simply duck and run? If Bobbie was right, he might respond to a threat to Marcy and the kids. I set up an email message to the Jorgensen address.
Karl, Jim, Hank, Tom—I am working for Marcy, not for your former east coast associates. I have no interest in exposing you. My only concern is to keep her and the kids safe. For that, I need your help. Respond with a place and time. The matter is urgent. Angelina Bonaparte
An hour later, the response hit my inbox.
Holy Hill grounds, 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. No negotiating on that. Park in the lot downhill from the Stations. Text me when you arrive. I’m sure you have my phone number. The Marriott was a good dodge. Be alone or I will disappear for good and the danger to my family will be on your head.
Despite his warning, I needed backup. The mantel clock that once belonged to my mother’s family showed the time as almost nine-thirty. It didn’t keep entirely accurate time, but close enough. Feeling guilty, I called Spider.
“Angie, what’s up?” As always, he sounded alert.
“Spider, I just set up a meeting with Hank Wagner. Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock, at Holy Hill monastery in Hubertus. I’m sending you my email and his response.”
After a minute or so, he said, “No way can you go there alone. I’m calling Bram after we hang up. We’ll be undetectable, I promise.”
“Good, because if we scare him off, I doubt we’ll get another shot.”
“Meet us at the farmhouse at five. Bram and I will take a northern approach and come in from the back of the grounds, which is a little over an hour, plus time to get into position. You’ll take the usual route, which is only about thirty minutes. Once you get here, I’ll set you up with a wire so we can hear the discussion. One sec.” After some clicks, he said, “The online schedule says there’s a six o’clock mass, so there will be people at the church early. I’m assuming that’s not Hank’s rendezvous point, but maybe we should station Bobbie in there, also wired, just in case. I’d contact Malone, but he’s out of the country.” Mad Man Malone was another former Special Ops whom Spider called on to protect us during the Johnson case.
“Bobbie will be thrilled,” I said, “and he’s a good man to have at your back. But Spider, what about Magdalena and the children?”
“No worries. The baby
