Chapter 21
RAFFAELE
The Conti family headquarters haven’t changed in twenty years.
Same brownstone on the same quiet block. Same brass plate at the door. Same long marble entry hall with the long oil portrait of Vincenzo’s father at the end of it.
Two of Nico’s people are in the foyer. Neither of them quite meets my eye. The one I trained—Eddie, twelve years on the floor—gives me half a nod.
“They’re upstairs.”
“Where.”
“The blue room.”
“Who.”
“Mr. Conti. The son. Just them.”
“Anyone in the hall.”
“No, sir.”
I walk up the stairs.
The blue room is not blue. It’s named for a rug that hasn’t been in there since 1998. It’s the room Vincenzo holds family meetings in— sporting twelve-foot ceilings, dark wood, a long table that seats fourteen on the rare occasions there are fourteen. Today there will be only three.
I push the door open.
Nico is already on his feet.
He’s not at the table. He’s by the window, pacing the small lane of carpet between the chair and the bookshelf, and I can see from the doorway that he hasn’t slept. His shirt collar is loose. His hair is damp at the roots.
The suit, though? The suit is immaculate. Nico has never managed much in this life, but he learned the first rule of the famiglia early: dress before you speak.
Vincenzo is at the head of the table.
He’s slouched. One hand on a glass. The other on the arm of the chair. The glass holds whiskey; it’s eleven in the morning. His eyes find me, and there’s the edge of a smile at his mouth that doesn’t survive long enough to count.
“Finally.” Nico stops pacing. “The man of the hour.”
I take a seat at the long table. Three from the head. The chair I’ve always taken. I unbutton my jacket and sit.
“Nothing to say?”
Nico slams both palms flat on the table.
“You’re really going to do this? You’re going to sit there and not say a single word. Of course you are. Why would today be any different.”
He pushes off and starts pacing again.
“Antonio Martinez. Antonio. You don’t even—do you have any idea how stupid this is?
Any idea. The guy’s been with my father since before you could walk.
And you, what? You got bored last night, you decided to take a drive.
With Castellano, by the way. I’m hearing this, also. You took my guy with you.”
“He’s not yours.”
“Don’t. Don’t talk.”
He paces back the other way.
“I was on the phone with him. I want to be very clear about this. I was on the phone with my friend. I was talking to him about a fishing trip, of all goddamn things, Raffaele, fishing—and I hear the wine glass go. You don’t even say sorry.
You don’t say there was a misunderstanding.
You don’t say, Nico, I have to call you back.
You hang up. On me. On the heir to this fucking family. ”
He turns to his father.
“He hung up on me, Pa.”
Vincenzo lifts the glass. Sips. Sets it down. He doesn’t intervene.
I let Nico talk.
I learned a long time ago that Nico’s anger has a curve to it.
If you let it run, it loses its shape on the way down.
If you interrupt it, it sharpens. So, I sit and watch him spiral, and watch Vincenzo, who is watching me back with the small, unreadable patience of a man who has been at this table longer than any of us have been alive.
“You think you’re untouchable.” Nico is talking to me again.
“You think because my father loves you, because you’ve been in his pocket since you were fifteen years old and eating out of a fucking dumpster, you can do whatever the fuck you want, and we’re all going to stand up and fucking clap? Jesus.”
He sits down across from me, finally.
“I just want to understand. Help me understand. Help your friend Nico understand. Because for the life of me—I’ve been up since two AM, on the phone with people I don’t like, and I can’t understand it.
Antonio Martinez. The guy had connections in New York.
He was the one running shit out there. Just fucking why? ”
I let the question sit.
“Was it the guys I sent? To her place?”
He sees the darkness flash across my face.
“It is, isn’t it? You’re killing made men over your receptionist. Over the fact that I gave you a little nudge. Made men, Raffaele. Guys my father has known for thirty years.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why? Tell me that. Why?”
I almost laugh.
“I felt like it.”
A silence opens up.
“What?”
“Antonio crossed a line. I killed him. That’s what happened.”
“That’s it?” Nico is staring at me. “That’s the answer? I felt like it.”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.” He straightens. He looks at his father, then back at me.
“Fucking bullshit. This is something else. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I’m going to figure out what it is, because you do not fucking kill a guy like Antonio Martinez because you woke up in a mood. You’re a fucking lawyer, Raffaele.”
He stands up again. “Are you working behind my back?”
He hasn’t figured it out?
I almost want to congratulate him on it. He told the men he sent back then what to do and where to do it and, presumably, what kind of answers to come back with. And here he is, finally putting the pieces together.
He’s pacing again. The tic at his eye is worse.
“Are you with the Morenos? Is that it? Tell me it isn’t, Raffaele.
Tell me you haven’t been sitting in that office on my dime, on my father’s dime, taking meetings.
Because you can’t—you don’t get to do this.
Not unless someone is paying you for it.
And the only person in this city who would pay you to take Antonio off the board is Victor goddamn Moreno. ”
“Nico.”
“No. Listen. I’m thinking out loud here.
Because it makes sense. Victor is the one who’s been at the gala running his mouth.
Victor is the one who’s been parking guys outside our places.
And now Antonio—Antonio, who was the one moving most of our northern numbers—Antonio is dead, and the lawyer who did it is sitting in this room not telling me why.
Either you’re losing your fucking mind, Raffaele, or you’re working with Victor Moreno, and if it’s the second one I want you to know, I want you to know, that I will personally—”
“Stop.” I don’t raise my voice. “You’re right. It’s the girl.”
“What?”
“It’s the girl. Antonio sent men to her apartment. I’m not declaring this in the way I should have, and that’s on me, but I’m declaring it now. She’s under my protection. Anyone who lays a hand on her answers to me. Antonio laid a hand on her. He answered to me.”
The room rearranges itself.
Nico’s expression shifts in stages: confusion, then a flicker of relief—oh, that’s all it is. Then, behind that, the slow refilling of the original outrage, transformed into pettier conviction. He stares at me.
“So, my first guess. Right out of the fucking gate. Right at the top of the conversation.”
“Yep.”
“You killed a made man over a piece of ass.” He laughs. “That is—Raffaele. That is—I don’t even—”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Watch my mouth.” He’s laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Watch my mouth. For your secretary, who has been at the firm for what, six weeks? He’s defending her honor, Pa, do you hear this? He killed Antonio Martinez to defend the honor of a girl whose last name I had to look up—”
“Nico.”
“—like we’re in a fucking opera. Antonio’s been telling me for years he doesn’t trust this guy, and I’m starting to see why. This is—”
“Enough.” Vincenzo sets the glass down.
Both of us turn.
“Antonio is dead.” A small wave of the hand. “Done. Can’t be undone. Wouldn’t want to undo it, frankly. Man had no taste in wine.”
“Father, this is serious—”
“Is it,” Vincenzo says. “A man at my level does not explain himself, Nico. Not to you. Not to anyone. Whatever happened between Raffaele and Antonio—disrespect, business, a pair of tits being compromised—doesn’t matter. The man is dead. Raffaele made a decision. That’s what men in power do.”
“You’re taking his side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m drinking.” Vincenzo lifts the glass an inch in salute and sets it down again.
“He killed our biggest earner. Come on.”
“And now we’ll find another.”
“This is unbelievable.” Nico is looking between us. “He murders a made man—a made man, Father—and you’re going to sit there and—”
“Yes.” Vincenzo’s voice is mild. “That is exactly what I’m going to do.”
Vincenzo takes another sip. He sets the glass down. He looks at me with what is, briefly, almost a smile.
“Oh. One more thing.”
“Yes.”
“That man of yours. The minor famiglia. The mouth on him. Something-enzo.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo. Yes. The bastard.” A short laugh. “Send him around sometime. We’re short an earner now that Antonio is looking down at us.” He pauses. “No. Wait. Looking up at us. The bastard’s definitely in hell.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Lorenzo at least knows how to work those assholes at the casino.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Good. Good.”
Vincenzo waves a hand. He picks the glass back up. The audience, as far as he’s concerned, is over.
Nico is still standing.
He’s staring at me with a hatred that’s not really about me. It’s about the weight of his father’s chair and the realization that his father just declined, in front of him, to use that chair to crush me. The look of an heir realizing, again, that the throne does not bend toward him by default.
“This isn’t over.”
“I know.”
“You think my father is going to protect you forever? He’s old. He’s drunk.” His voice is shaking. “One day, very soon, I’m going to be sitting in that chair. And on that day—”
“On that day,” I say, standing, “you’ll still need me. Because you don’t have the brains or the patience to run any of this without someone cleaning up after you.”
All the color flushes from his face.
“Get out.”
I button my jacket and turn to the door, stopping only briefly at the entryway.
“One more thing.” I turn back to look at him. To let him see the threat in my eyes. “Whatever you’re planning. Whatever move you think you’re going to make next. Don’t.”
“Or what.”
“Or Antonio won’t be the last body I leave behind.”
I open the door and walk out.