Chapter 2
CALIGULA
…told you we didn’t want the kid drugged…
…just a little insurance policy, safer than slugging him…
Swimming back up into consciousness takes a long time and a lot of effort.
There was a van.
A white van.
…a conversation about this…not going to be much fun for you, Scaglietti.
I’m not in a vehicle now, though.
…said it yourself a thousand times, man, you can’t trust the Gees and Cees!
He’s whiny, that guy, whoever he is. I don’t like him.
“And once upon a time, we both ran with them,” says the first voice. Definitely not whiny. Dangerous.
Whiny seems to realize that, because he doesn’t reply. And then I get a real shock, because the next person to speak is a woman. “He’s coming round.”
There’s a silence, but I can feel stares even through this black bag that’s over my head. I try to play possum, but it’s too late. They know I’m awake.
So I concentrate on what information I can gather. The bag over my head smells like sweat. Someone else’s sweat, which is somehow worse. I’m sitting up in a chair. It’s metal. My hands are duct-taped to the arms of it. My feet are free, but when I give an experimental rock, the chair doesn’t move.
It’s bolted to the floor.
“Unbag him, Vicente,” says the dangerous voice.
The bag comes off in a rush of cool air and I fill my lungs gratefully, blinking at the woman standing over me. She has short black hair and big brown eyes, a Glock holstered at her side, and she’s right in my face. “You need to puke or anything?” she asks.
I don’t bother answering, since I don’t need to puke—or anything.
I’m not even conscious enough yet to worry about my body.
I might be in pain, but I wouldn’t know.
Whatever drug Whiny stuck me with—because I think that’s what I’ve pieced together so far—it’s making everything floaty. Like reality is on a two-second delay.
I’m in a warehouse. Cold concrete floor, and the air smells like rust and wet cardboard. Industrial shelving stretches away into shadow, and there are a few large metal shipping containers lined up against the far wall.
I don’t want to think about what’s in them.
“Hey,” the woman says again. “You okay?”
I’m not going to speak unless I have to. I look past her to the others standing behind her. There are three of them, all male.
“There’s a bucket there to your right,” the woman says. “If you need to puke.”
There’s a guy in his twenties with brown hair, trying to seem tough by putting his hands on his hips, to make himself seem wide and imposing. But he’s about as skinny as I am right now, so it doesn’t work.
The other two men…
The other two, I recognize.
One of them steps forward: short and stocky, bearded, hands covered in old prison tattoos.
“He’s fine,” he insists, staring at me. It’s Whiny, aka John Scaglietti.
Scags, they used to call him. He was one of my grandfather’s bodyguards.
“Look, the kid’s totally fucking fine, and the job went off without a hitch. ”
The woman glances at him with dislike and turns to the third man. “I told him, sir. Told him you wouldn’t be happy.”
Scaglietti shoots her a look so full of venom I almost wish she’d seen it, so she’d be on her guard around him.
“Like I said, Scaglietti and I will have a conversation later,” the third man says. “But go on, now. All of you.” He steps forward as the others leave, bickering while they do.
“…didn’t have to snitch me out, Vicente.”
“Yeah I fucking did,” she snaps without breaking stride. “I’m not going down for your screw up, Scaglietti.”
“If Della-crotch-sniffer here had done his job right—”
“Fuck you,” shoots back the skinny guy. “I bagged him clean.”
I haven’t taken my eyes off the man in front of me. He comes a step closer. “You know who I am?” he asks.
I nod. Nick Fontana, the Morelli Underboss, is not someone I expected to see. But it makes a sick kind of sense. I guess Sebastiano Conti was wrong. It was the Morellis all along.
Dami and I were right to be suspicious of them.
Thinking of Damiano Orsini makes me come back into my body in a thump. His mouth on my throat. His hands in my hair. The dull ache in my ass that breaks through the drug fog. The way he touched me, the way he possessed me…
But becoming aware of my physical state presents another problem. I turn my head to the side and puke up everything in my stomach. And since the last thing I ate was a huge meal from Rosa, there’s a lot of it.
I don’t even know Rosa’s last name, it occurs to me, as I wait for the choking spasms to end. I never bothered to ask. Nor Vito’s, nor Sammy’s.
I never had the chance to ask. And now I never will.
I’m pretty good at getting most of the mess into the bucket, and Nick Fontana just stands there waiting while I vomit it all up. “You done?” he asks at last as I spit, trying to clean out my mouth.
I take a few deep breaths. The nausea has passed, so I nod briefly. He pushes the bucket away with his foot, then comes back to stand in front of me. “It’s the drugs,” he says. “I told them to do it clean, but Scaglietti went off-script. For what it’s worth, he’s gonna regret not following orders.”
“He never was worth a goddamn,” I croak out. “But then, rats never are.”
He gives a half-smile. “So you do remember him.”
Of course I remember him. Along with the other bodyguards, he was omnipresent in the last few months of Nonno Lou’s life, a heavy shadow at my grandfather’s elbows.
And after my grandfather was murdered, it came out that Scaglietti had been turned by the Morellis.
He was in on it. He was there that very night, the only one of them to escape with his life, because he’d defected.
“You know what they say,” I continue. “If he’ll cheat with you, he’ll cheat on you. You should keep an eye on him.”
I’m rambling because I’m trying to buy some time. I’m pretty sure Fontana is going to blow my brains out in a few seconds.
And even if those few seconds consist of being tied to a chair with vomit on my chin and the imaginary heat of another man’s hands still on my skin, I’d rather have those seconds than not.
“Yeah,” Nick sighs. “Between you and me, I don’t think he’ll last much longer. But the Boss wanted to give him a fair chance, on account of his service to the Family.” He leans in closer, gives me a critical look over. “Speaking of, better get you cleaned up before he gets here.”
Luca D’Amato is coming here? I guess he wants to watch me die with his own eyes.
Or by his own hand.
Fontana leaves me alone for a moment, walking off behind some shelves, and I hear a faucet turn squeakily, water running. I test my bonds, but the duct tape holds tight, and the chair doesn’t give an inch.
The fluorescent light above me flickers.
Buzz, flicker, buzz. My newest captor returns with some damp paper towels and wipes off my face.
I let him do it, watching him for weaknesses the whole time.
There are none apparent. I could kick him, but it would be like kicking a tree; it would hurt me more than him.
“Here.” Fontana holds up an old mug to my lips. “Wash your mouth out, at least,” he says when I clamp my lips shut.
If I can believe what I heard when I was still half-drugged, Fontana wanted me conscious for what’s coming. That makes sense. If D’Amato is on his way here to end me, he’ll want to enjoy the kill. Want me fully awake and aware.
So I take a mouthful, swish it around my teeth, and spit it out. And when he offers it again, I drink it down. Cold as hell and tastes metallic, but it’s good.
Outside, I hear a car pulling up, doors slamming.
“Okay,” Fontana says. “That’s him.”
I hear more than one pair of footsteps, but only one man appears out of the shadows. “Boss,” Fontana greets him respectfully, stepping aside and sweeping out an arm as if to present me to him. “This is Caligula Clemenza.”
Luca D’Amato is wearing Armani, and his black hair is neatly combed back.
His shoes are gleaming, and the heavy signet ring of his Family, silver with a black stone, is on his finger.
Rumor has it he wears it over his wedding ring.
His most striking feature is his stare—the pale blue eyes that have always unnerved me.
He turns them on me now, looking me over as though I’m a valuable new acquisition and he’s checking for scuff marks.
I’m getting very tired of being appraised by powerful men.
“He’s a little green around the gills,” D’Amato says.
“That was Scaglietti,” Fontana replies. “Jabbed the poor kid with one of his cocktails.”
Poor kid? Well, perhaps there’s something there I can exploit. Fontana seems to genuinely pity me.
“I specifically ordered—” D’Amato begins.
“I know, Boss,” Fontana murmurs. “I know. But the kid’s okay, and I’ll deal with Scaglietti.”
D’Amato comes a few steps closer to me. “Cut him free, Fontana.”
“Not a good idea, Boss.”
“Nick,” D’Amato says with soft amusement, “I can handle a kid.”
“You both keep calling me that,” I break in. My voice is still rough, but the ice is back in it. “But I’m not a kid.”
The smile Luca D’Amato gives me has no warmth to it. “No,” he says. “No, you aren’t. Go on, Nick. Cut off the tape and then give us some privacy.”
“He’ll run,” Fontana warns, even as he comes closer and takes out a switchblade.
“No, he won’t. Will you?”
I look into the face of the Capo dei Capi, the man who killed my grandfather, the Morelli Family Boss, and the current King of New York. “No,” I tell him. “I won’t run.”
“See?” D’Amato says, as Fontana hacks me free. “We’re all good here.”
“I’ll wait outside,” is all Fontana says. He leaves, taking the balled-up duct tape with him, and I’m left alone with Luca D’Amato. I shake out my hands and try to rub some feeling back into them. The blood returning to my fingers burns.
“Caligula Clemenza,” D’Amato says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”