Chapter 13 #2
It’s a relief to know I can still lie convincingly. Because there are lines I find I won’t cross, despite everything. I wish I had my grandfather’s solipsistic certainty that his life mattered more than anyone else’s. I just can’t force myself to believe it.
But I can’t let Damiano know that.
“If you can be sensible and let me ask my questions without trying to kill me in front of Strike,” I go on, “you might just learn something yourself.”
“What the fuck do I have to learn from some washed-up Clemenza?”
He’s so exasperating. “Haven’t you ever wondered why my father killed yours?” I snap.
“I know why he did it. Because he was a deceitful coward who betrayed his friend and did whatever your asshole grandpa told him to, like some little bitch.”
“That’s not a reason,” I say coldly. “It’s a list of attributes.
None of which are accurate.” Well, the one about my grandfather was.
But my father was warm and kind, and he regularly got in trouble with Nonno Lou for not following orders if he didn’t think they were justified.
So I can’t picture him being this cold killer that Damiano paints him as all the time.
If he killed Vincent Orsini, there must have been a reason.
A good reason.
He’s still scowling at me. “If you think I’m gonna stand there while my father’s name gets slandered—”
“I won’t say anything bad about him,” I sigh. “I don’t know anything about him, bad or good. All I know is that you’ve bound your whole life to his death. If we can find out more about it, don’t you want to know?”
He sits there breathing hard and then turns away. It’s as close to a “Yes” as I’m going to get.
I’ll take it.
We get into the Queens suburbs, where the sky opens up as the buildings get shorter.
It’s not the worst part of Queens, but it’s definitely not the best. Patchy lawns.
Chain-link fences. I see more than one beat-up truck with a construction or plumbing or electrician’s logo on the side.
Maybe Strike will have five strong sons that he raised as Loyalists as well, men who will be useful in the days to come.
Maybe.
But when the car pulls up to his house, I have to abandon my wishful thinking. His house is probably the worst-kept on the street. Overgrown grass, a cracked driveway, and the car parked on it is at least my age. This isn’t the home of a man with loyal sons ready to fight.
This is the home of a man who’s been left behind.
“You really going to waltz into that shithole and expect help?” Damiano asks, sounding amused.
“There’s no need to be rude,” I tell him. “Just because someone doesn’t have the kind of money you do—”
“I worked hard for what I have,” he says with disdain. “I look at this place and I see a lazy motherfucker clinging to a name instead of putting in the hours that it takes to be on top.” He turns his gaze from the house to meet mine. “Just like you.”
I’m so angry I can practically feel the blood drain from my face. “You worked very hard to become another man’s attack dog. How aspirational.” I get out of the car. “Stay here, please,” I ask Vito, who jumps out of the driver’s seat. He stands there frowning as Damiano climbs out the other side.
Vito can’t have heard anything we’ve been saying. But it wouldn’t take an empath to feel the tension between Damiano and me, thick and murderous. Vito looks at Damiano and points to himself, then the house.
Damiano raises a hand, obviously trying to hold his temper in check. “Stay here,” he says shortly. “Make sure no one jacks the car.”
I walk up the cracked driveway with Damiano at my back, the cage shifting against me with every step—a maddening reminder of who thinks he’s in charge. I pause at the door to take a breath.
Then I knock.
I have to knock again before we hear shuffling feet in the hallway. “Not interested,” mutters a voice from behind it.
“Mr. Ferraro?” I say to the closed door. “My name is Caligula Clemenza. I heard you might be looking for me.”
The door flings open, revealing a man north of sixty, with thick silver hair and eyes so dark brown they look almost black. His face is weathered, with deep lines carved between his nose and mouth, between his brows, around his eyes.
Those eyes go wide at the sight of me. He looks me head to toe and back again as though he’s not sure he can believe what he’s seeing, and then he grabs me by the arm and yanks me forward.
“Get in here,” he snarls, “before someone sees you.”
But Damiano has grabbed my other arm and pulls me back with a casual tug, causing the other man to overbalance.
“Hey!” he snaps at Dami. “You can stay the hell out of this, Orsini. Yeah, I know who you are.”
Dami looks at me with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
“He’s a friend of mine,” I tell Strike. “My protection. I don’t go anywhere without him.”
“Oh, kid,” Strike breathes, “you got no fucking clue what this guy will do to you.”
I most certainly do. But before I can calm the situation, Strike pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and trains it on Damiano’s face.