23. Cale
23
CALE
S omething I’ll never get used to is how some of these rich legacy bastards get handed the golden keys to the universe and then decide to become the dumbest motherfuckers who ever breathed.
That’s the category where Grant Gallant belongs. While I wasn’t shocked to hear he’s a lousy prick, his treatment of Sadie deserves a whole new level of outrage.
I waited until Sadie was on a plane back to Colorado. It didn’t take much digging to discover that the guy was in the hole to a notorious Bronx sports bookie. Plus he was using company assets as leverage.
As luck would have it, that bookie happens to be under the Amato family umbrella. All it took was a couple of calls and Grant Gallant was summoned to a meeting. He was sweaty and nervous when he arrived. He soon got a whole lot more sweaty and nervous when he found himself chained to a table in the basement of a pizzeria while an electric drill hovered two inches from his forehead.
Rarely do I enjoy being the enforcer when sent out on one of Richie’s errands. It’s just part of the landscape. This was different. Anyone who causes Sadie pain deserves to suffer. Still, I never broke my promise to her. Grant Gallant left the room with all the parts he arrived with.
The dumbass must have assumed I was a paper tiger. After a lifetime of being drunk on his own high society status, he assumed he was untouchable.
Now he knows better.
Any sign that he has dared to bring his ugly face within a mile of Sadie will be met with swift punishment. If any dirty videos of my wife are ever seen again, I’ll treat it as a declaration of war. To add to the fun, I have some new video footage of my own, featuring Mr. Steakhouse shitting his pants and blubbering so hard he was choking on his own snot while begging for mercy. I’m keeping the video for my own satisfaction but if I ever feel the need to use it, viral social media humiliation will be the least of that fucker’s problems.
A few days later, I’m still feeling pretty good about reducing Sadie’s ex to a whimpering blob with a big shit stain on his backside as I drive out to Long Island. Richie is recovering from hernia surgery so he’s holding court at home this week.
As I coast through Richie’s neighborhood, I take a slight detour to pass right in front of the gates of the Wingate mansion. In the aftermath of the wedding fiasco, Sadie thought she’d hear from her family. Nothing that happened at the wedding was her fault. She covered up the hurt by cracking jokes when none of them reached out, not even to make sure she was okay.
I made sure she was okay. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do right by her anyway.
Not the point, though. The point is the Wingate family is a collection of self-involved scumbags with their collective heads stuck up their waxed asses.
The warm June weather has helped thick strands of ivy snake across the fences and the view of the house is obscured. Anyway, no one is likely to be home in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Before I drive by, I flip the Wingate estate the bird just because it feels like the right thing to do.
Next door at Richie’s house, Vinny Tello is hanging around in the front courtyard and yakking on his phone. He gives me a curt nod and I ring the bell, which is answered immediately by Brisetti.
“Whatcha doin’?” he says with his mouth full. He waves a beefy hand holding half a meatball hero. “Ringin’ doorbells and shit. Get in here.”
He waddles down the hall without waiting for me to agree. Along the way, he drips tomato sauce on Aunt Donna’s floor.
The fellows who are sitting in the living room as we pass by are new faces. They pause their conversation and stare without saying hello.
I could swear the vibe in this place feels off, although I can’t put my finger on the reason. There’s nothing earth shattering about running into new recruits. This is just a typical meeting.
“Tray of sandwiches in the kitchen,” Brisetti says with a loud belch.
“I’m good,” I say and follow him to Richie’s office.
There’s no one sitting behind the mammoth desk. Franco sprawls in one of the leather chairs with his head back and his mouth open, having dozed off. He flinches when his leg gets kicked by Brisetti.
“Where’d you put the boss?” Brisetti says as he lowers his bulky body into a chair.
“Shitter.” Franco yawns and then notices my presence with a jerk of his head. “Where you been? Haven’t seen you around much.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I keep busy.”
Whatever I’ve been doing it’s none of Franco’s concern. I don’t answer to him.
My phone goes off in my pocket. Since Richie isn’t watching right now, I see no reason why I can’t back out of the room and check my messages. Besides, any amount of time spent solely in the company of Franco and Brisetti is destined to melt some IQ points. Right now they’re arguing about whether or not tomato sauce needs oregano to still be considered tomato sauce. Franco says it does. Brisetti says it doesn’t. Compelling stuff.
There’s no one in the hallway when I lean against the wall and check my phone. The alert on my phone is a text from Sadie. At least three times a day she sends an update from the world of Bright Hearts Ranch. Sometimes she wants to introduce a newcomer to the ranch. Other times she wants to share a picture of an early summer sunset or let me know that the cowboy romance novel she’s reading reminds her of me and by the way, do I know how to lasso a horse?
Since we started this whole phony marriage arrangement I’ve read all of Sadie’s texts. I just didn’t usually answer them. That has changed. We talk every couple of days and our conversations are rarely short.
Sadie has got to be one of the most optimistic people on earth. Even when she gets internet infamous after puking at her sister’s wedding she manages to keep her chin up and finds a reason to laugh. Got to admire that kind of resilience.
I understand that I’m walking an edge here. Yet I can’t stop. Sadie and I made a deal. Nothing about that deal included two hour phone calls with a lot of flirty subtext that I’m not allowed to act on. Even if all the fake marriage factors could be overlooked, Sadie’s life is on a Colorado ranch. While I’m stuck here in the Amato family crime web. There’s no way to change this.
In spite of it all, hearing from that girl is the best part of my day. Every single time.
This time Sadie sent a video of one of her daily tours of The Doghouse. She talks a mile a minute in between greeting the exuberant resident of each individual kennel. Her voice is sweet music but I’m impatient to see her face.
Last month when she stayed at my place, I did something kind of odd. I watched her while she slept. Not in any kind of a fucked up way. She’d just spent hours puking her guts out and I was worried about her. Sadie slept on her right side with one arm curled under her and the other arm hugging a spare pillow. With her hair fanned out all around her and her pink lips slightly parted, she was adorable as hell.
And while I stared, an unfamiliar feeling snuck up out of nowhere. I found myself tucking the covers snugly around her and nudging a red curl from her soft cheek. The closest comparison to the way I felt as I looked at Sadie is the fierce determination to protect my brother. Even that feeling doesn’t quite match.
I wanted to do far more than keep her safe.
I wanted to keep her with me .
Then she stirred in her sleep and I left in a silent hurry so she’d never know I stood there like a creep and watched her breathe.
Now as I watch Sadie’s video clip, Jasper pops up with a goofy wave. With only a few seconds left, Sadie finally turns the camera on herself. She’s stepped outside and a breeze lifts strands of her beautifully wild hair. The backdrop beyond the ranch is far greener than it was when I stayed there in early April.
“One more thing, Connelly,” she says with an arched eyebrow a cute tilt of her head, “don’t be too busy to call me later. Or my feelings will be hurt.” She winks. The last thing she does is blow a kiss.
I’m about to replay the video. However, shuffling footsteps punctuated by deep grunts are signals that it’s time to send the phone to my pocket.
Richie turns the corner. He’s walking at the speed of a slug. He looks a little unsteady and could probably use a hand but I don’t offer because he’d hate the pity.
Richie holds onto the wall and throws me a grumpy look. “This fucking hernia shit is for the birds.”
“Did you take something for the pain?”
“Nah. It’s better than it was yesterday. Doc says within two weeks after surgery I’ll be moving around like normal.” He stops and studies me more closely. “Were you talking to your wife just now?”
“No. She just sent me a short video of the ranch.”
“Pull it up. Let me see.”
I’d rather not but I don’t have that option. I’m just glad Sadie didn’t say anything that would provoke any questions. Richie takes the phone away from me and watches with the screen inches from his nose. I’m trying not to squirm. It’s more difficult than usual. I dislike the fact that Richie is watching Sadie’s video. It wasn’t meant for him. And just feels too personal or whatever. Like he’s getting too close to her.
At the end, Sadie blows her kiss and signs off. Richie hands the phone back with a grin. “She’s a cutie.”
“Yes, she is.” Before I return the phone to my pocket I pause to look at the screen wallpaper. Vegas. That kiss.
I stare at the screen for too long. When I look up again, Richie is watching me. There’s a shrewd gleam in his beady eyes that I don’t like very much but I’m careful to keep my face neutral. Richie Amato didn’t get where he is by being bad at reading people but he’s never been able to correctly read me. Let’s keep it that way.
Richie’s jaw flexes. He tends to grind his teeth when he’s thinking. “What’s this I hear about you messing up the heir to some restaurant chain?”
I meet his eyes without a flicker. “That was a personal project.”
He snorts. “You couldn’t give your uncle a heads up first?”
“It’s not a big deal. He walked out of there. Between the trucker’s strike screwing up all the construction deliveries and your surgery I didn’t want to bug you.”
“Hey.” He knocks a hand against my chest and comes closer. “You give me a heads up next time. Capisci ?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I understand.”
He sighs and gestures to his office. “After you, Carmine.”
Franco and Brisetti have moved on from arguing about oregano. Now they’re arguing about whether Bugs Bunny is male or female. Fucking idiots.
The only open seat in the room is the leather sofa parked against the wall. That’s fine because from that perch I can keep an eye on everyone in the room. I’m not nervous, not exactly. There’s been a mood shift around here lately I can’t blame my imagination because I don’t have much imagination.
I’ve felt it ever since I returned from my gun battle mishap out west. The death of Albie Barone’s brother was a hit by a cartel-affiliated rival who was trying to flex some muscle in Barone’s Brooklyn territory. The target was actually Barone himself but in a quirk of fate he’d lent his brother his car.
It’s an old story; overconfident upstarts try to make a bold move and get clobbered for it. Richie and some of the other family heads partnered with the Barones to remove the threat and it was all over by the time I returned to the city.
The thing that still bothers me is how I was kept out of the loop. Even once I was back I had to corner Richie and extract the whole story. For whatever reason, I’m no longer one of the first people he calls to confide in. And while I’m happy to distance myself from my uncle, I want to know the angle. With my uncle, there’s always an angle.
I’m sitting quietly on the sofa and barely moving a muscle while Richie and the two capo jokers chatter about trucker strikes and casino business. I’ve got nothing to add until I hear Franco say, “So when are we all going on this Colorado trip?”
I’m sure that I flinch. Richie’s eyes immediately dart my way. Yet he says nothing and waits for me to ask the question.
“What Colorado trip?”
Richie picks up a can of salted peanuts and slowly pulls off the lid. “Barone has an ownership stake in a resort called Consequences Hot Springs. Looks like it’s not far from your wife’s ranch. As a gesture of thanks for helping him solve some recent problems he’s invited us all to fly out on his plane for a free weekend.” Richie pops a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chews. “Anyway, I’m sure I told you this already.”
The fuck he did.
Richie casually munches on his peanuts and waits to see what I’ll say next.
Sadie mentioned that resort once. She pointed to some mountains in the distance and said she always meant to check the place out.
“Right,” I say. “So when are we going?”
Richie quits chewing. He swallows and grabs more peanuts. “A week from Friday. We’ll fly back on Monday morning. Note to all, this is a trip with the wives. Spread the word. No girlfriends. You know how the women talk and I’m not in the mood to deal with that kind of grief.” He points to me and grins. “Lucky you. Your wife will already be there.”
“Lucky me,” I agree without a pause.
There’s really no other choice but to go along for the ride.
On the one hand, I’m not looking forward to explaining to Sadie how her peaceful corner of the word is about to be invaded by a pack of mafia goons.
On the other hand, I’ll be seeing her again real soon. That’s the reason why I find myself fighting a smile.
The urge to smile fades when Richie laughs at a comment from Franco. The reality of what’s going to happen next weekend sinks in.
The men I’m sitting in the room with are bad men. They are a threat to everyone they meet, whether other people realize the truth or not. I’m no angel myself but I don’t harm the innocent. Besides, I’d charge straight into a firing squad for Sadie.
She doesn’t understand what these men are, not really.
And thanks to me, they’re all coming right to her doorstep.