Chapter 33 Damiano
DAMIANO
I spend the next two nights sleeping in one of the guest rooms down the hallway.
It’s helped clear my head to stay away, even though the Clemenza grew more and more cold every time I brought in a meal—or more protein shakes. Having tasted one of those things myself, I can see why he objects.
Frankly, his spunk was a lot tastier.
But he’s definitely getting healthier. His skin has that glow to it that caught my eye at his father’s funeral. He was eighteen and trembling in the rain under an umbrella, but he still had that rich-kid aura about him.
He lost that sheen over the next few years. But when I saw him on the Obelisk stage, shining with golden dust, it reminded me of that first day I laid eyes on him.
I hadn’t considered him at all before that funeral. Hadn’t ever seen him in real life. And I hated him the moment I saw him. Made my decision then and there, that he’d pay for his father’s sins.
Things have gotten a little complicated since then, so staying away from him is a good way to clear my head, no matter how mad he might get.
But today is the day. This morning, when I took in his breakfast, the Clemenza’s skin had returned to its natural glow, the one that always made me think of him as his Family’s golden boy, long before I ever saw him covered in the real stuff.
And just after lunch, a big fucking delivery van pulled up at the service entry, and I had to raise the security system just to let a fashion show troop into my house.
The suit is here. And so are all the other clothes I asked Benedetti to provide for the little prince.
Truth be told, I kind of forgot about that.
It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Well, I hope the Clemenza likes them, because he can think about that high-end wardrobe while he’s languishing naked in the basement again for the rest of the year.
When I open my bedroom door, he’s draped in my robe, walking around the room aimlessly like he’s about to lose his mind.
He stops dead and folds his arms to glare at me, but says nothing.
I know why he’s pissed. It’s because I haven’t given him a chance to manipulate me for the last two nights. Must be frustrating for him.
“C’mere,” I say, and crook a finger at him. He approaches cautiously until I back up out of the doorway. “Move it. We’re going to visit your Uncle Tony.”
At that, he practically shoots out the door.
“Downstairs. To the great room.” He follows my orders without complaint, but when we get to the room he stops again to stare.
The minions Benedetti sent over with the clothes spent some time setting up a rolling rack of what his wife bought for the Clemenza, and laid everything that couldn’t be hung all over the sofa. “What’s this?” Caligula asks suspiciously.
“Looks like clothes.”
He approaches them as cautiously as he approached me upstairs, reaching out to touch one of the shirts as though he’s not sure it really exists. “What…” He turns back to me, a strange look on his face.
Ah, fuck. I think it’s hope.
“Sometimes I’m gonna need to take you out, prove to Luca D’Amato or Big Gee that I ain’t killed you yet,” I tell him. “You need clothes for that. That’s all it is, golden boy.”
It doesn’t seem to have dampened down his delight in the clothes any. He takes his time running his hands over them, testing the fabrics and holding them up to himself just to see how they fall.
They’re all perfect. I guess the Benedettis spent some time tailoring the off-the-rack stuff to fit the little prince as well.
“We gotta make a move,” I say at last. “Get across Midtown traffic to see this uncle of yours.”
“He’s not really my uncle. But yes.” He turns to me with an air of business. “The suit?”
I point to a garment bag hanging up at the end of one of the rolling racks.
Caligula unzips it and takes out a sleeve of the jacket, nodding.
“Perfect. Of course. And these must be for you, too—” He reaches behind to where three plastic-covered shirts are hanging as well.
I assumed they were for him, but when he holds up one, I can see it would swamp him.
I frown. “I’ve got shirts. I didn’t ask for those.”
“You do have shirts,” he agrees. “But these are better. Time to play dress-up, Dami.” He flicks a finger at me, up and down. “Strip.”
I’m already pulling my t-shirt up over my head before I even think about getting pissed at some Clemenza trying to boss me around.
But now’s not the moment for me to correct him; we need to time this interrogation right.
We figured going early evening would be best, when the sun’s already on the way down.
Caligula said all the lawyers would still be at the office, and it’ll be best to do what we need to do with the aid of darkness covering our tracks.
I even let him help me dress, since I figure he knows better than I do how to make it look decent. The tailor included a few ties with the shirts, and Caligula selects one in a deep green. “It will bring out the green in your eyes,” he says.
“My eyes are brown,” I protest.
“Yes. But they have shards of jade and emerald as well.”
Shards of jade and fucking emerald? I just let him tie some complicated knot and adjust it around my neck. He presses a hand down to make the tie sit right and looks up into my face. “There,” he says. “Perfect.”
He’s standing close enough that I swear to God I can feel his body heat, and my robe is sliding down that golden shoulder again.
Without thought, my hands come up and close around his biceps, pulling him a little closer so that he has to tip his head back, his throat a long column, his lips falling open as his golden eyes grow heavy-lidded—
A noise in the doorway makes us both turn our heads sharply, but I don’t let him go. If anything, I instinctively pull him closer, as though there’s any threat in my own house.
It’s just Sammy. He’s staring at me with big hurt eyes.
“What?” I snap.
“Vito’s waiting out front,” he says in a quavering voice. “Like you asked.”
I nod, dismissing him, but Sammy doesn’t immediately turn to go. Those sad eyes travel down my arms to where I’m clutching Caligula against me.
I guess, from where Sammy’s standing, it might look like I was about to kiss him.
“Go see if Rosa needs anything,” I bark out.
Sammy retreats slowly, walking backward, his eyes on the Clemenza’s face now. And I’ve never seen such hatred in his eyes before. He turns at last to leave, and I look down at the man pressed up against my chest.
He looks up at me.
“We need to get moving,” I tell him, and push him away. “Get dressed.”
Vito drives us through Midtown to the building where Stuccio it smashes immediately, and I try to clean out the frame as well.
The noise gets the guards outside moving, and the heavy thumps now must be hard kicks at the lock. I have about three seconds to judge the jump.
But if there’s one other talent I have apart from hurting people, it’s this kind of shit. I jump just as the door bursts open, and land ass-first in the dumpster below. I see them all staring down at me.
They won’t follow me. No one with an ounce of sense would.
I scramble up and out of the dumpster, barely registering that one of the bags of trash had something hard and sharp-edged in it, and it cut into my shoulder blade. Rosa can deal with injuries later.
The guards above have all disappeared, which means they’re running down the internal stairs and will be coming around the corner of the block in half a minute, maybe less. I limp a few steps before I shake it off and charge down the alleyway to the car, throwing myself into the back seat.
The Clemenza is there.
That’s the first thing I notice. He’s actually here in the car, waiting with Vito.
I didn’t know how much I expected him to run until I see him sitting there now, and something inside me gives this weird jump.
Relief, I guess.
By the time I focus on his face, whatever expression he was wearing a second ago has smoothed into oblivion, and he’s just staring back at me.
But he’s here. He didn’t run.
He knows he needs me.