Chapter 22
DAMIANO
By the third evening, the house smells wrong.
There’s no garlic. No onions sweating down in butter. No slow, rich scent of meat braising in red wine or tomatoes simmering until they give up and become sauce. No clatter of pans. No Rosa snapping at Sammy to stop hovering and wash his hands if he’s going to steal food off her cutting board.
Just silence.
That’s how I know something’s coming before I even get to the kitchen.
When I walk in, Rosa is standing at the counter as usual, but her apron is off.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rosa in this kitchen without an apron on unless she was leaving the house, and even then, sometimes she forgets and Vito has to tug at the strings before she walks out the door wearing it under her coat.
Now it’s folded neatly on the counter in front of her. She has both hands braced on either side of the apron, fingers splayed against the counter, knuckles pale.
“Where’s dinner?” I ask.
Not my smartest opening line. I can tell from the flat set of her mouth that I’ve already pissed her off. “There is no dinner.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“No dinner.”
Behind her, the ovens are dark. The stovetop is clean. Too clean. I know she cooked breakfast and lunch, though, because I told her to send them down to the Clemenza. I also know he didn’t eat either. “You sick?” I ask.
“No.”
“Something happen?”
“Yes.” She points one finger down. Not at the floor. Lower than that. “I’m not doing it,” she says. “Not again.”
“Not doing what?”
“I will not be part of your cruelties to that boy.”
A hard pulse goes through me. “He’s not a boy.”
She gives me a look that would curdle milk. “Don’t play with words. Not with me.”
“I’m not playing.”
“No? Then you are a fool. And you are a coward.”
I take one step closer, but Rosa doesn’t flinch. “Be careful,” I tell her quietly.
“I have been careful for too long. Much too long! I did this once already for you; I told myself maybe I did not understand. Maybe you had reasons. Maybe you would come to your senses—and then you did. But I won’t do it again. And I will not have a man starve to death in this house.”
“Nobody’s starving him. He just won’t eat.
That’s his problem.” I’ve been watching the cameras on my phone since I left him down there.
He showered the first day when I turned the shower on, stumbling in the dark to the cubicle.
But he didn’t on the second, or today, and now he’s pulling a hunger strike.
I was planning to go down tomorrow and scare him into taking care of himself.
“It is your problem,” Rosa shouts. Actually shouts. “Because if you don’t get him out of there right now, I am leaving this house!”
I laugh, dark and ugly. “You know why he’s down there? Because he threatened you. He threatened Vito and Sammy and you. He’s not the sweet kid you think he is, Rosa.”
She’s gone pale hearing that, but she still won’t budge. “Whatever he has done, you are doing worse. Get him out of there, or I go.”
She’s bluffing. I know she’s bluffing. “Okay,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and leaning against the counter. “Go on, then.”
She turns and calls, “Vito!” She keeps my gaze as we wait, Vito’s quick footsteps coming closer from the garage. “I need a ride to the bus station. I’m going to my sister’s place upstate.”
Vito frowns, puzzled. And then she pulls out a large suitcase from behind the counter. He looks at me, and the frown deepens.
This house without Rosa in it would just be walls. Vito and Sammy won’t stick around, that’s for sure. And they’re all in danger. Maybe not from the Morellis, but from whoever’s been gunning for the Clemenza…
That killer is still out there. And just like his target, I’m pretty sure he won’t hesitate to use my household as collateral.
“Fine,” I say stiffly. “I’ll get him out.”
Rosa’s shoulders drop by an inch. That’s the only sign of relief she gives.
“But don’t start thinking you give me orders,” I growl.
“Get out of my kitchen,” she snaps at me. “I have work to do.”
She’s already putting the apron back on.
The elevator ride down feels longer than usual.
I stand in the brass-and-mirror box with my hands at my sides and watch my own reflection descend with me.
Rosa called me a coward. She was more right than she knew.
The doors open to the basement. It’s always a surprise to see just how dark it is down here. A yawning void.
Caligula is still where the cameras have been showing him all day. Curled on his side on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the collar around his neck.
I have a flash of him as he was at the Obelisk. Gold dust on his skin. Chin high, eyes bright, tongue sharp. A prince selling himself to monsters.
Now he looks…small.
His eyes are still closed.
“Caligula.”
His eyes open. That’s the only way I know he hears me as I cross to the bed.
It’s the stillness that bothers me. He’s just lying there like someone turned off a switch. But I wanted this. I planned it. I should be satisfied with the outcome.
“Get up.” No response. “Don’t make me carry you.”
Still nothing. I reach down and close my hand around his upper arm, pulling him upright. He lets me, passive as a doll.
I take out the key for the collar. My fingers are clumsy, but I get it open, take it from around his neck. There’s a red mark where it sat. His hair is a mess, and he looks washed out in this light.
“Stand up.”
He gets to his feet clumsily. Sways. I take his arm to steady him, and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t lean in, either. He just stands there and lets me hold him up.
I steer him to the elevator. He walks where I push him, stops when I stop him, steps in when the doors open. He stands in the corner staring at nothing, and the elevator light is harsh on the bruises I left on him the other night.
I look again at that red line around his neck from the collar. And then I look away.
“You’re going to eat something,” I tell him. “Rosa’s cooking.” Nothing. “And you’re going to shower. You look like shit.”
His mouth moves. For a second I think the real Caligula Clemenza is about to surface, some acid observation about my own personal grooming standards, maybe, or something about the hospitality.
But his lips close again.
I decide to put him in my bedroom because it’s closest to the elevator. I lead him to the bed and he almost collapses into it after I pull the covers back, curling onto his side, facing away from me.
Same position. Same silence.
For one wild moment I want to grab him and shake him until the real Caligula Clemenza comes snapping back into place. The ice prince. That vicious little viper with a strategist’s mind and a tongue like a whip.
Instead, I go into the bathroom, get a glass of water and set it on the nightstand, and look down at him again.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
I walk away and stop at the door. “Take a fucking shower.”
Still nothing.
I pull the door mostly closed behind me and then I go down to the guest room and sit on the edge of the bed until I hear footsteps on the stairs.
It’s Rosa, bringing up a meal for him. I meet her in the corridor and grab the tray. “I’ll take it in.”
I don’t want her to see him like that. She’ll only think worse of me. She hands it over with a cold stare and tells me dinner is ready downstairs. But when I take the tray into the bedroom, he’s not there. Motherfucker. Did he run again?
Then I hear the sound of the shower in the bathroom.
I knew it. He’s fucking fine.
By the time I go back up to bed, my bedroom door has been shut completely. I debate going in there and telling that snake that he better enjoy one night in comfort, because that’s all he’s getting, but instead, I just lock the door from the outside and get some shut-eye myself in the guest room.
But just after one in the morning, someone starts hammering at the door and leaning on the buzzer.
I’m on my feet before I’m fully thinking, gun in hand, running down the stairs in only my underwear.
Rosa is already in the foyer in her robe. Vito is behind her, shotgun in hand. “Both of you get back to the kitchen,” I order.
They don’t move. The bell goes again, hard and angry. The security feed shows a man under the portico, shoulders hunched against the cold, one hand braced on the security shutter like he’s considering ripping the whole thing off.
He glares up into the camera. It’s the Morelli Underboss. Nick Fontana.
I thumb the intercom. “You lost?”
“Open the door, Orsini.”
“It’s late.”
“That’s why I’m in such a shitty mood. Open the fucking door.”
I let up the security screen and crack the door slightly, gun in view. Fontana is wearing a dark overcoat over a tracksuit, hair rumpled like he dragged himself out of bed and would rather be back there.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“To see the Clemenza boy.”
Usually I correct anyone who calls him a boy. He’s a prince, he’s a viper, he’s a threat, he’s…
“Well?” Fontana demands. “Where is he?”
“Asleep.”
“Then wake him up. Finch hasn’t heard from him. He’s supposed to check in every day. You know that.”
Of course I know. I memorized the code for the phone the night we came home from the French restaurant, and I’ve been making sure to check in for the Clemenza while he’s been in the basement. Except tonight I…
I forgot.
“Finch also said he didn’t like the tone of the last few check-ins,” Fontana goes on.
“Said they didn’t sound like the kid. And when the Boss’s husband is cranky, that means the Boss is cranky, too.
So I got sent out in the middle of the damn night to deal with shit I shouldn’t need to be dealing with, because you gave your word, Orsini. ”
I did my best to keep my texts brief, similar to the kind of thing Caligula had sent before. I guess I didn’t imitate him as well as I hoped. “He’s fine,” I say.
“Then you won’t mind proving it.”
From behind me, Rosa’s voice cuts in. “I’ll get him.” I turn, but she’s already moving, gray hair in a braid down her back. She hurries up the stairs before I can stop her.
“So, you gonna let me in or make me freeze my balls off out here?” Fontana grumbles.
I lead him into the great room. The fire is low but still alive, red coals glowing behind the grate. I flick on a lamp. Warm light spills across the rugs, the dark wood, the shelves.
Fontana takes it in with one sweep of his eyes. He doesn’t sit.
Neither do I.
“I’m going to ask you once, Orsini.” Fontana’s voice drops. “Is he safe here?”
He’s safe from the people killing Clemenzas. Safe from the Bratva. Safe from the Morellis deciding he’s too inconvenient to keep alive. Safe from every predator in the city…
Except me.
“He’s alive,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and both of us turn.
Caligula appears in the doorway wearing my robe. His hair is messy. His eyes are heavy-lidded. He blinks like he’s just been dragged from a dream. “What’s going on?” he asks at last.
His voice is faint. Cracked.
Fontana studies him. “You missed your check-in.”
I brace myself. He’s going to spill it all. He’s going to say I threatened to kill him, locked him in the basement, left him in the dark for three days…
Caligula glances at me, then lifts one hand to cover a yawn. “Oh,” he says. “Is that all?” He steps farther into the room, bare feet silent on the thick carpet. “I’m sorry. We’ve been busy.”
His eyes slide toward me. Not subtle this time. Not meant to be.
Fontana looks between us, and Caligula gives a tiny smirk, just enough to make the implication filthy.
“Too busy to answer a text?” Fontana asks.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten those first few days of a new connection,” Caligula tells him. “But, yes. Far too busy.”
Rosa is in the doorway, still as a statue. Her eyes go from Caligula to me, then back again. She knows he’s lying. Fontana must know it, too.
But Caligula sells it like he always does.
He comes to stand near the fire, almost close enough to touch me. He keeps his posture loose, sleepy, spoiled. He plays the prince pulled from his lover’s bed and irritated by the interruption.
It’s perfect.
And at first, all I can do is marvel at the performance. The nerve of him. But the closer I look, the more I see how much this is costing him. His shoulders are sitting too high. His mouth is curved but tight. And his eyes—
His eyes aren’t that bright, golden honey color they usually are. They’re dark and shadowed.
Fontana folds his arms. “You had an agreement with Finch.”
“I’m aware.” Caligula tilts his head. “And while I appreciate the concern, I do think we should discuss boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” Fontana repeats.
“I agreed to keep in touch with Finch. I did not agree to be monitored like a child. Banging on Dami’s door in the middle of the night because I failed to send a bedtime update is not acceptable.”
Dami. He says it easily. Softly. And he has to know it cuts me every time.
“Tell Finch I’ll text him if and when I feel like it,” he finishes.
Fontana watches him for several long seconds. “You sure you’re okay?”
Caligula’s smile is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It’s his smile, the dazzling one that charms old society ladies and French waiters alike. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. “I’m wonderful.”
“You look tired.”
“I refer you to my earlier point about being busy.”
Fontana’s gaze drops briefly to the robe, to Caligula’s throat, to the bare feet. Then he looks at me. There’s an unspoken warning there. “Alright,” he says at last.
I walk him to the foyer. Rosa steps aside to let us pass, saying nothing. At the door, Fontana pauses, waits till I’m looking at him. “Don’t make me need to come back here.”
He walks out into the cold, and I shut the door behind him. The security shutter slams down. When I turn, Rosa and Vito are gone, so I head back to the great room. Caligula is standing exactly where I left him by the fire.
But the smile is gone.
For several seconds, neither of us says anything.
My robe hangs off his shoulder. There’s still a faint red line on his throat where the collar sat.
One of his hands is curled around the opposite wrist, holding on too tight.
He’s upright. Composed, even. But only because he’s holding every broken piece of himself in place by will alone.
He covered for me. To the Morelli Underboss. After three days in a collar in a dark basement, after what I did to him down there, he stood in this room and gave the performance of a lifetime to protect me.
I can’t figure out what angle he’s playing.
He walks past me toward the stairs. No last jab. No spite. No parting shot. He just brushes past me, and then he’s gone.
I stand there. The fire pops behind the grate.
He’s playing me. He has to be. He’s running a longer game.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense.