Chapter 14
DAMIANO
“Wait!” the Clemenza shouts as I push him out of the way.
But I’m not going to wait while someone’s waving a gun in my face, for fuck’s sake.
I shove the old man’s arm sideways, slamming his wrist into the doorframe.
The revolver clatters to the ground. I scoop it up, pop the cylinder, and shake out six rounds into my palm. The whole thing takes a few seconds.
“Don’t hurt him,” Caligula snaps. “Dami, stop.”
I’ve already fucking stopped. The old man is cradling his wrist and glaring at me with a look that probably scared people thirty years ago. “He’s fine,” I say. “You’re fine. Right?”
“Fuck you,” he grumbles.
“I apologize for Mr. Orsini’s actions,” the Clemenza says with a cold stare at me. “He’s very protective of me.”
Ferraro squints at me. “Hard to believe that,” he says. “This guy’s had a problem with the Clemenzas for decades.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Caligula says vaguely, but Ferraro seems to accept that. “Mr. Ferraro, I came here because I hoped to get some information. Do you think—”
“You can have more than information,” the old man says at once. “Do you know how long we’ve been looking for you, sir?”
Sir, he says, with automatic deference. Oh, the Clemenza is going to love this guy.
“I’ve only recently become aware of your group,” Caligula says. “And I’d appreciate a chance to sit down and talk about…well, everything.”
Ferraro is staring at Caligula Clemenza again now, staring like he’s the second fucking coming. I think his damn eyes are glistening with tears.
This is ridiculous.
Surely the Clemenza must see what a pointless exercise this will be? This old goat can’t protect him, not like I can. Or could have, until he skipped out and left me.
I wish I hadn’t asked him about that when I was edging him this morning. Made it seem like I gave a fuck.
“Come in, come in,” Ferraro is saying, backing down the corridor and motioning Caligula forward. “And I guess if you vouch for the Giuliano, he can come too.”
“As if you could stop me,” I mutter under my breath, so that only Caligula hears it. He gives me one last furious look, and turns to follow Ferraro as he leads us into the living room.
The house smells like old coffee and cigarette smoke that’s soaked into the walls over decades.
The living room is cramped, filled up with a sagging couch, an old TV, and dirty plates here and there.
But there are photographs on the wall on a lopsided shelf: a younger Strike Ferraro with thick dark hair and a grin that says he knew how good he looked, standing beside men in suits at what looks like a wedding.
Clemenza men. I recognize the face of Lou Clemenza in one of them, younger and meaner, and beside him, for a second, I think it’s Caligula…
It’s his father. Cesario Clemenza.
I look away.
Ferraro starts clearing plates, hampered by the arm that won’t move past a few degrees. He can hold things if he passes them to himself, but it’s slow, clumsy work.
“Let me help,” Caligula offers.
“No! Hell, no. You just sit tight, sir, and I’ll get this cleared away…” He shuffles toward what I assume is a kitchen door with a small stack, dropping silverware as he goes.
Caligula sends me a significant look.
“For Christ’s sake,” I sigh. “I’ll help.”
In the kitchen, Ferraro keeps a suspicious eye on me as I place the plates down. “I know who you are,” he rumbles quietly. “And I know what you did. Buying that kid at a Bratva auction.” He shakes his head in disgust.
I don’t really give a shit what this guy thinks of me, so I’m more interested in the fact that he knows all this. Word has gotten out. “He’s not a kid,” I say. “And if you really think he is, then you’re not much better than I am, using him to prop up your resurrection fantasies.”
He curls his lip. “Get some glasses out of the cupboard over there. Fill them with water.” He stands waiting for me to do it, and I have to admire his balls if nothing else.
Ferraro used to have quite the rep back in the day before he got injured. He was a solid right hand to Cesario Clemenza, probably would’ve made Capo some day if he hadn’t caught those bullets in the back. So out of respect for the man he might have been, I play waiter.
Back in the living room, Caligula Clemenza has taken a seat on the small couch, and looks up with a smile. “Thank you so much,” he says, as Ferraro sets the water down in front of him as though it’s fine champagne. “You’re very kind to welcome us into your home.”
A few hours ago, Caligula was shaking apart in my arms, begging for release. And right now, under those pressed pants, he’s wearing a cage I locked him into. Yet here he is. Sitting on a stranger’s couch with a posture that would make a king jealous.
How does he do that? How does he switch so fast between the man who begs and the man who commands?
“You shouldn’t be here,” Ferraro growls again.
“It’s not safe. Not since the Don passed, may he rest in peace.
” He crosses himself automatically. “But thank God you’re still alive.
We need to get you into hiding, get some protection for you—” He starts shifting in his seat, moving to get up. “I’ll call the boys.”
“Please don’t,” Caligula says at once. “Not until we’ve spoken, just the two of us. I, uh. I’m not sure who I can trust these days. I need to be careful. And I need information.”
He’s playing the old man, who doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re right,” he says, dropping back into his seat. “Can’t be too careful. You go on and ask whatever questions you have, sir. We can figure out a plan after that.”
The Clemenza’s golden eyes slide my way for a moment, and I know what he’s about to say. “Mr. Ferraro, I wanted to talk to you about my father,” he begins slowly.
Ferraro’s old face creases in a smile at once. “Cesar,” he says fondly. “That’s what we used to call him. He was a good man.”
I can’t stop my fists from bunching up at the idea of that murderer being described as a good man, but I stay in my seat.
“And you can call me Strike, sir,” Ferraro goes on. “You know it was your dad who started calling me that?”
“Strike. I wanted to ask about my father’s friendship with Vincent Orsini.”
Ferraro stops smiling. “What about it?”
“Well…” the Clemenza spreads his hands, unsure where to start. “Why did my grandfather allow the friendship, for starters?”
“Good for business,” Ferraro says with a shrug.
“We were tight with the Gees back then. And Cesar was warm. Friendly. He coulda made friends with a lamppost if he had to. Orsini was different.” He turns to me.
“He was a lot like you, your dad. A mean motherfucker. Cesar was the only one I ever saw make him laugh.”
I’m clenching my jaw so tight my teeth hurt, but I don’t want to interrupt. What the Clemenza said in the car was true: I’ve anchored my life to my father’s death, and I never thought all that much about why it happened. Never thought much about my father beyond those few moments.
I squashed down all my memories of the times before then. It was dangerous to think about. Like any happy memories might make me soft.
I don’t think about the moments after his death, either.
But I’ve never, not in all my memories, thought about my father’s laugh. He was a serious man, the weight of the world on his shoulders. So when he did laugh, you knew it was real. But it was rare.
I can’t remember that laugh now. I wish I could.
“So they were friends,” Caligula goes on.
“Sure. Yeah, they were friends. They worked together a lot. In those days, your grandpa and Jimmy Gee saw the benefit of working together. Not like these days, with that meathead in charge of the Gees,” he adds, glancing at me. “Your new guy’s useless. But I guess you know that.”
“Hey,” I say. “You watch what you say.”
“Why?” he laughs. “You gonna beat up an old man?”
“Let’s take it down a notch,” Caligula says, with enough ice in his tone to cool my head. “I appreciate your candor, Strike, but if you could keep the editorializing to a minimum, I’d appreciate it even more.”
Ferraro cackles. “You really remind me of your dad, you know that? He was a real good guy. Wanted to run things clean, you know? Make sure everyone knew where they stood. Your grandfather, God rest his soul, was more…well, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
Ferraro is still smiling at the Clemenza. “You remember that time, huh?”
Caligula blinks. “I’m sorry—which time do you mean?”
“Well, that time you saved my skin, of course.” Ferraro’s grin goes soft, almost tender. “Your grandpa was all set to shoot me himself. Not even your dad could talk him out of it. And there you were, barely a teenager, and you talked him down.”
“I…” The Clemenza trails off, and the composed mask flickers. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. I think I do remember.” He squeezes the arm of the couch, a crease between his brows.
“I owe you my life,” Ferraro says seriously. “I was a dead man walking into that room. When I came out alive, it was a fucking miracle. I told your dad that day I’d always be grateful to you.”
Caligula has pinked up. “I barely did anything,” he murmurs.
“You were the only one who stood up for me besides Cesar. Your grandpa was sure I was the rat. And it was only down to that logic you laid out—how I could never have known what he was accusing me of spilling—that convinced him otherwise. It was Nardelli who was feeding the Feds, that piece of shit.” He grins again.
“Well, he got what was coming. Your dad and I saw to that, the very same day.”
“I’m…glad I could help,” the Clemenza says. But there’s something hazy in his eyes, some memory he’s reliving that he doesn’t like.
I don’t want to picture it. But I can’t help it. A thirteen-year-old boy standing between an angry Don and a condemned man, armed with nothing but that golden tongue.
Caligula goes on, “But none of that means you’re beholden to me now, Strike.”