Chapter 9
DAMIANO
I stay in the same guest room I slept in when I was trying to avoid the Clemenza before, back when keeping a distance from him was my choice and not his order.
It’s past midnight. The house is silent. And just three doors down, Caligula Clemenza is sleeping in my bed, and I’m lying here in the dark staring at the ceiling trying to figure out when exactly I lost control of my own goddamn life.
I could kick the door in. It’s my house, my bedroom, my bed. The lock wouldn’t hold for two seconds against my shoulder, and he knows it. The lock isn’t a barrier. It’s a dare.
He’s daring me to break it down, because he knows that the second I do, he picks up that phone and calls Finch D’Amato, and my household pays the price.
Or so he says.
The thing is, a Mob Boss who wants to threaten you isn’t usually so subtle about it.
But D’Amato is so bussy-whipped that he’d do anything his husband wanted him to do. And for some fucking reason, Finch has taken an interest in the Clemenza. It makes sense the threat would come from him. Gives the Morelli Don some plausible deniability, too.
So I just lie here, and I think about what I’d do to that snake if I could.
But after a while, the thoughts split in two directions, and I can’t control either one.
Down one track, I’ve got my hands around his throat, and I’m finishing what I started on the railing.
Down the other, I’ve got my hands somewhere else entirely, and he’s making that sound he made the first time, when I drove into him in one stroke.
Both versions end with me losing everything.
I roll over and punch the pillow into a different shape and think about the day I can take out my fury on his body instead of a sack of duck feathers.
I leave early the next day, but the smell of roasting turkey is already filling the house.
I drive myself instead of calling for Vito.
At least I can release some frustrations at work.
This morning it’s a restaurant owner who’s three months behind on his protection payments.
I hold him up against his own kitchen wall and explain what will happen to his kneecaps if he’s not current by the end of the day. He cries. Gives me a check on the spot.
Clean. Simple. The way my life used to be before the Clemenza snake slithered into it.
I need to figure out how to get Rosa, Vito, and Sammy somewhere safe before I kill Caligula. I could ask Seb to protect them, but he’d ask questions I’m in no mood to answer.
I get back home just before two to find the Clemenza sitting in the great room in front of a roaring fire, like he owns the damn place. “How was work, honey?” he asks.
The whole house reeks of turkey and herbs and pie, and I know I’m not getting out of this dinner. I’m just not sure why the hell the Clemenza is so determined to play this game.
“Everything’s set out in the formal dining room,” he says. “Stairs or elevator, Dami?”
It’s tempting to get him into that elevator and down to the basement again. I could keep him in there and torture him over a few days, enjoy myself before the Morellis found out anything.
But there’s still the rest of the household to consider. I can’t make a move against the Clemenza until I’m satisfied they’ll be safe.
And besides, the last time I was inside that elevator, I was also inside him.
That greedy little bitch didn’t even want me pulling out to make our way upstairs.
My traitor dick gives a twitch at the memory.
Somehow things have gotten all tangled up inside me, so it doesn’t matter whether I’m thinking about fucking him or killing him, I get excited either way.
Grisha Andropov must have felt similar, to get off on watching his enemy humiliated sexually, right up until I snapped his neck.
There’s a lesson there for me, too. Caligula Clemenza is always working a con.
“Stairs,” I snap, when it becomes clear he’s not going to make another move until I make a decision. I follow him up the staircase, and he even pauses to look over the banister on the third floor.
“I think I’d probably die from this height, too, Dami,” he says lightly, “if you’re in the mood to try again. No? Well, let’s have dinner. I can’t wait to hear what everyone’s thankful for.”
I don’t know why he’s so determined to get on my nerves. But he’s always been like this, I suppose. Just pushes and pushes until I crack. This time, though, I’m rock solid. I’ll keep control of myself until the moment it’s safe to let go.
In the dining room, Rosa has set five places with the everyday white china, candles in silver holders, and the buffet loaded with sides. Sammy and Vito are already seated, and Rosa jumps up when we enter, but Caligula waves her back.
“You just relax, Rosa. I’m sure Dami will be pleased to carve the turkey.”
With that, he makes his way to the head of the table—to my place—and waits.
I take the seat at the bottom. The bird, glistening and golden, sits there. And right there next to it, a huge carving knife.
He’s handing me a weapon and daring me to use it.
I pick up the knife and I look at the Clemenza across the length of the table. He’s sitting there with a small, satisfied smile, the candlelight playing over his face.
For a moment I think about plunging the blade into his heart.
It’s a pleasant idea, but it’s a passing fantasy.
So instead, I imagine Caligula Clemenza’s throat under the knife as I carve into the turkey, cutting through in one stroke to the bone.
The silence in the room means I can hear when I strike it, and the quiet continues as I carve it up.
Vito gets up after a few minutes and reaches over to take Rosa’s plate, and begins serving out the sides. Once he’s put enough on her plate to feed just about everyone at the table, he picks up Sammy’s plate and starts serving out the same huge portion to him.
The Clemenza doesn’t object; in fact, he hands his plate down to Vito to get his sides as well.
I focus on the bird. Rosa, when I glance at her, is staring at her plate of sides with a perplexed look. She can’t figure this out.
And once again, neither can I.
Eventually, we all begin eating. After a few minutes, the Clemenza looks up and says, “Rosa, this is delicious. It’s the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had. Thank you for making it.”
He looks like he really means it. And the way Rosa flushes with pleasure tells me she’s pleased with the compliment.
The last thing I need is my household staff getting seduced by the snake once more. “He’s right,” I say. “But everything you make is amazing.”
And then, because the Clemenza can’t let me have a single goddamn thing, he goes on: “Since it’s Thanksgiving, I’d like you to know that I’m thankful for you being here in this house, and taking care of everyone in it.”
Rosa’s attention swings back to him. So I raise my glass. “A toast. To Rosa, who puts up with an awful lot more than she should.”
Rosa’s head is swiveling so fast it’s like she’s at a tennis match. Vito and Sammy raise their glasses too, and Sammy adds a quick “Hear, hear” that makes Rosa wave him off with a pleased flutter. After we drink, the Clemenza smiles at her once more. “Rosa, what are you thankful for?”
She sets down her silverware. “I am thankful for Signor Orsini,” she says. “For the home he has given me, and the work. I’m grateful he gives me the chance to do that.”
For the first time in two days, I have a reason to smile.
“And I am thankful that you have come to live here, too, Signor Clemenza,” she adds.
Caligula’s smile is blinding, but mine drops. “What about you, Vito?” he goes on.
Vito picks up his wine glass and holds it out to Rosa with a nod of his head.
“It seems we’re all thankful for you, Rosa,” the Clemenza says.
Sammy pipes up, “Me, too,” with a glare at Caligula. At least Sammy sees through the wiles and the lies. He always did.
The dinner continues, the atmosphere softening despite the formal setting. Sammy is telling Vito about something he saw on TV, Rosa adding her opinion, and the Clemenza is listening with what appears to be genuine interest, chin resting on his hand, golden eyes glowing in the candlelight.
He’s good, Caligula. He’s very, very good.
Eventually, we get through the food, and dessert, too—Rosa’s pumpkin pie. Rosa, Vito, and Sammy begin to clear the table, Rosa saying that she’ll make up some food parcels for Vito to drop around the neighborhood to some of the people on the street.
“You be careful,” I tell Vito sharply. “Don’t make yourself an easy target.”
Vito shakes his head firmly. And I trust him to be out there on his own. He might have gotten older, but he’s still as savvy as he ever was.
Sooner than I realize, the Clemenza and I are alone in the room, the candles burning lower. I blow them out, then turn to leave.
But I should have known better.
“Wait, Dami.” I hear him push his chair back, and then he brushes past me on the way out of the room. “Let’s take the elevator this time.”
I follow him in, and when he turns to face me, I don’t turn around. I stand there looking down at him, the elevator doors closing behind me, sealing us into this small, mirrored box.
He looks up into my face and says, “Take us down to the basement, please.”
He’s fucking around. “What?”
“The basement, Dami. Take us down there. Now.”
I’ve learned it’s best not to give him any more ammunition than he needs, so I keep my mouth shut and reach for the brass panel where the fingerprint scanner is situated.
A moment later, we’re descending. I stay right where I am, staring down at him, feeling the heat come off his body and wondering if he thinks he’s going to lock me down there in retaliation.
That’s not going to happen. The elevator rises or descends only at my desire, unless he finds a way to cut my finger off.
He stares back. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
We hit the ground. The elevator doors open behind me, and the basement air rolls in, only a little cooler than the rest of the house, and carrying the faint ghost of wood polish and old fabric from the Clemenza furnishings I spent years collecting.
“After you, Dami,” he says politely.
I take a step backward and reach for the light switch next to the elevator doors. The large space takes shape, developing out of the dark like a photograph.
The Clemenza townhouse, dismantled.
He follows me out, not even a shadow of hesitation in his feet, and looks around.
“So you didn’t take out your temper on this part of the collection,” he says. “Only those naughty dishes upstairs.”
“What the fuck are we doing down here?” I demand.
He walks to the bed he slept on while he was down here and turns to face me. In the low light, his eyes are darker than usual, the gold muted. He points to the thick metal collar lying next to the bed, the one with the chain to the wall.
“I want you to put that collar back on me,” he says.