Chapter 30
DAMIANO
I leave the Clemenza to sleep for a while and go down to get a long-overdue first coffee of the day from Rosa. Sammy is in the kitchen, too.
“What are you doing sitting around?” I ask him.
Usually he’s out running errands for Rosa in the mornings. But he’s sitting there at the counter, watching her cook.
“Nothing to do,” he says, but the way he stares at me makes me think he’s been waiting for me to make an appearance.
Rosa, without comment, busies herself making me a coffee.
I sit up at the counter next to Sammy rather than take the coffee up top to the sunroom, where I usually have it in the mornings.
I don’t want to be any closer to the Clemenza than I have to right now.
There’s something about him that gets my brain clouded.
The further I stay away from him, the better.
“Where’s the Clemenza?” Sammy asks casually, as though he read my mind.
I’m surprised enough to answer. “I don’t know where the fuck you heard that name, but you keep it to yourself.”
“The asshole told me himself, said his name like he was proud of it.” Sammy’s eyes flash as he turns to face me.
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Sammy.” I wish I’d gone up to the sunroom like usual. If I’m not getting harassed upstairs, I’m getting harassed downstairs.
“Are you fucking him?”
I almost spit my coffee back in the cup. “What the hell did you just say?”
“I asked if you’re fucking him.” There’s a cold, obstinate look on Sammy’s face when I stare at him.
“You keep out of my business. Don’t make me tell you again.”
There’s silence, blessed silence for a minute, maybe two. Then Sammy keeps on pushing. “If you’re not fucking him, why’s he here?”
“It’s not your business,” I snarl.
Rosa is glaring at me now. As though I’m the one being unreasonable.
The problem is, I understand why Sammy is pushing this. It’s not just the Clemenza thing, though God knows that would be enough. The night I saved his life, he was getting beat within an inch of it in a back alley by a bunch of Clemenza thugs.
But that’s only part of it.
He’s…always had kind of a thing for me. I’ve never encouraged it. In fact, the one time I was dumb enough to fall asleep in the downstairs lounge, and woke to Sammy’s hands sliding up my thighs, I grabbed his wrists and told him to get. He ran out and didn’t try to speak to me again for a week.
It’s just misplaced gratitude, and he doesn’t know how to express it except sexually. He grew up real rough, and the only way he ever knew how to pay for things was with his body. So I don’t want to come down too hard on him, but he’s sure making it difficult.
“But—” he starts again.
I slam down my coffee cup, turning to him. He shrinks back at the look on my face. “You don’t get to question what I do in my own house. Do you hear me?”
I’m horrified to see his eyes start to shine with tears. “It’s my house, too. You’re not the only one who lives here.”
“You’re here because I’m letting you be here.”
“You said I was family,” he says, the hurt clear in his voice now. And the thing is, when I took him in, that’s what I told him. That he’d be like family if he could keep on the straight and narrow, listen to Rosa, do what we told him.
“Family doesn’t question the Boss,” I growl. “Now get out of here, go do something useful.”
He shoves back his chair hard so that it scrapes on the floor, and I roll my eyes as he stomps toward the doorway.
Sammy is twenty-six, but his emotional growth stunted around five, probably from the horrific shit he started going through at that age.
So when he turns in the doorway again and he’s crying for real, I’m not surprised. “I thought I meant something to you!”
For fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to react to that? “You do mean something to me,” I tell him, trying to find a way to be gentle. “But…” I shrug, because I’m real bad at emotional shit like this.
And it’s exactly the wrong thing to do. There’s a fractured look of pain in his eyes, and he turns with slumped shoulders, heading back down the hallway. A second later I hear a door close as Sammy goes back into his room. It’s not even a slam.
I’d feel better if it was a slam.
The disapproval on Rosa’s face just makes me feel worse. “What are you looking at, woman?”
“A man making everyone miserable, just because he’s miserable himself.” She shakes her head, muttering more in Italian that I can’t catch.
“If you have something to say, fucking say it.” I sound more dangerous than I ever have when speaking to her, but I don’t regret it. This is my house, for Christ’s sake. I won’t have people disrespecting me in it.
But Rosa is not cowed. She folds her arms, leans back against the counter opposite, and gives it to me. “This might be your house, but you’re doing badly by everyone under your roof. That boy upstairs, Sammy, me—and yourself, too. Get your head screwed on straight.”
“What do you want from me, Rosa? If you wanted a hero, you’re working for the wrong guy.”
Rosa snorts. “It’s true, you’re not a good man. But you’re a better one than this. Sammy adores you. He doesn’t deserve to be insulted for it. And as for that boy upstairs—”
“He’s not a boy!” I slam my fist down on the counter next to the coffee cup.
Why does everyone insist on calling him that? He’s a grown-ass man who wasn’t able to take care of himself, and he should be thankful he ended up with me, the one fucker in New York City with a legitimate reason to kill him who can’t.
Rosa leans over, takes my coffee cup away, and dumps it out in the sink. “As for that boy upstairs,” she goes on calmly, “you should be ashamed of yourself. Now get out of here and let me get back to working for you.”
The sarcasm drips off her tongue, and I feel like shit for acting as though she and Sammy are nothing more than staff. The truth is, I would die for them as well. That’s why I’m so mad at being treated like this, spoken to like this, by people who should know me better.
But if I keep going like this, I’ll find myself out of a housekeeper in the next five seconds. I’m pretty sure I’ve reached Rosa’s limit. Vito would probably follow her out the door. And then Sammy.
“I’ll be glad to fucking get out of here,” I tell her. “Tell Vito to pull around front in the car and wait for me there.”
I spend the rest of the day doing the only thing I seem to be good at, which is making people hurt. There are quite a few crews that need encouragement to pull their weight right now, and I’m happy to explain to them the error of their ways.
Once my hands are sore and aching, I can finally think straight again.
Rosa was right, even though I don’t want her to be.
Having the Clemenza in the house is making me crazy.
He belongs in the basement. The sooner he gets better, and the sooner we figure out who’s hunting his line, the sooner I can put him back there.
That means I need to take good care of him over the next few days to hurry things along.
When I get back home in the evening, I head down into the kitchen.
Sammy’s there, eating dinner with Rosa, his back to the door.
He doesn’t turn even though Vito comes in from the side door and gives me a nod, telling me the car is put away for the night.
Rosa stands expectantly, wiping her hands down her apron to smooth it.
“Rosa, I need a tray. Two meals.”
She nods and starts putting it together. As I go past Sammy, I ruffle his hair exactly the way I always do. “You keep out of trouble today?”
He pulls away with a scowl, but I know I’m forgiven when he says, “Always.”
“Good to hear.”
Vito happily sits down to the meal Rosa has kept hot for him, sneaking a peek at her as she bustles around.
She pretends to ignore it, but her eyes slide his way when he starts eating.
Those two have been circling each other for years now.
Maybe one day they’ll get it together. But it’s not my business, and I have enough of my own to take care of.
“Should I send it in the dumbwaiter?” Rosa asks when the tray is ready.
“I’ll take it up myself.”
It’s about as close to an apology as she’s going to get, but the look of approval on her face tells me she’s accepted it. She puts it into my hands and then turns back to fuss over Sammy and Vito.
At least the air’s been cleared downstairs.
Time to face the fog that always comes over me near the Clemenza. I head upstairs slowly, since I don’t want to drop the tray. Slow and steady, up all those flights of stairs, instead of taking the elevator. Gives me a few extra minutes to get my head on straight.
I set the tray down on a side table in the hallway near my room and fish out the door key from my pocket. I’ve kept it with me all day, a reminder of what was waiting for me back home as I beat some sense into my own men.
Big Gee likes to run a tight ship, and I’ve never complained before.
Under the old Don, I didn’t get as much of a chance to get my hands dirty.
I was proud when Big Gee started calling on me more.
Annoyed when Sebastiano called for restraint, if there was any discussion had, since Big Gee ain’t much for discussion.
Seb does what he can, but the Boss knows his own mind. I guess that’s why he’s the Boss.
But as I unlock the door and turn back for the tray, see my thick, red knuckles close around the dainty little thing, I wonder for the first time if Seb’s right. Sometimes a beat-down isn’t the best answer. Sometimes you gotta win hearts and minds instead of break bones.
Because in the end, we’re no better than the Clemenzas, if that’s our approach.
I lever the handle with my elbow and kick open the door.
Caligula Clemenza is sitting up in bed, staring at me. “Finally,” he says with a scowl. “I know how we can get to Uncle Tony.”
I really thought I’d managed to clear my head today. But there it goes again, that haze in my mind whenever I lay eyes on him. I thought for a while it was just rage. The need for vengeance. I’m not so sure anymore.
“Eat this first,” I tell him. “Then you can tell me your brilliant plan.”
He smiles smugly. “It is brilliant. But it will require some assistance.”
I set the tray down on the bed and hand him a bowl of white bean soup.
He takes it—eagerly, I note, since I guess the protein shakes I left with him weren’t exactly Rosa’s home cooking.
He’s drunk them all, though, or at least, he’s left a pile of empty plastic containers littered on the nightstand.
“We need to do this alone,” I tell him, taking my own bowl. “For various fucking reasons.”
He eyes me, probably thinking about those reasons like I am. The most obvious: he’s a target. The most important: he’s my property, and I don’t need him thinking he’s anything more than that.
Then he smiles. “It’s alright, Dami. You’ve got the brawn. I’ve got the brain. All we need now are the right clothes.”
I squint at him, wondering if I heard that right.
But I must have, because he goes on, “And for that, we’ll need Lorenzo Benedetti.”