Chapter 26 #2
And again, I don’t like what I’m hearing. This was supposed to be an intelligence-gathering meeting, not a reunion.
But the scarred-jaw guy presses forward off the wall. “Fuck that,” he says. “You know how I got this?” He points to his face. “From a former brother turned Alessi Family. If we ain’t here for revenge—”
“There will be no talk of such things,” Caligula says at once.
The guy stares at him, ugly and angry. “Bad enough some queer’s running things,” he scoffs, “and now he ain’t got the stomach for what needs to be done. At least D’Amato don’t think twice about taking down his enemies.”
I’ve already raised the gun, and I only pause because Caligula grabs my other wrist. “Put the gun down, Dami,” he says. I lower it. Slowly. “If this man has such a problem with me, he’s of no use. He should leave.”
“He’ll spill things,” Ferraro growls. “Better to put him down.”
“I am not going to have my people thinking they risk their lives simply to meet with me,” Caligula says, sharpness sliding into his tone.
“If he wants to go, let him go. That goes for all of you. If you don’t like the fact that I’m gay—if you don’t like the fact that I don’t plan to challenge Luca D’Amato’s leadership—then get out. Now.”
The scarred guy looks around, expecting support, but no one else says a thing. In the end, he has to shuffle out of the room alone, sending a half-regretful look back as Ferraro slams the door behind him.
“Any questions?” Caligula asks, after a beat.
They all glance at each other. They don’t know what to make of him.
Hell, I don’t know what to make of him.
This isn’t the snakey little motherfucker I broke into pieces in the basement. But he’s not the empty husk I pulled out of it, either.
This is Louis Clemenza’s grandson, and I wonder just how much like his grandfather he really is.
And how much he means what he’s saying. The whole time I’ve known him, the only thing that really breaks his composure—apart from getting horny—is a mention of the man who killed his grandpa.
Now here he is, calling for peace with the Morellis, letting bygones be bygones.
I don’t buy it.
But the rest of them do.
“We should make our vows,” Ferraro says, looking around at them. They all nod agreement. “I got the oil here, and the bread,” he goes on eagerly, pointing at the table.
I was right. It’s for the ceremony; that must be the way they do it. The Giulianos do it different, using salt and a knife.
“But he can’t be here,” Ferraro goes on, pointing at me.
“Yeah,” says one of the others. “What’s a Gee doing here, anyway?”
“Like Don Morelli, Damiano Orsini has proven himself a friend of the Family,” Caligula tells them.
“You will show him the respect he deserves. As for your vows, they can wait. Go home and think about whether this is what you really want. Once we begin this venture, there’s no going back.
Some of you might not live through it. You need to be certain. ”
It doesn’t seem to faze any of them, but there’s a murmur of assent, a hiss of Yes, Don Clemenza, that travels the room.
“You got the ring, though. Right?” Ferraro says, looking at Caligula’s hands, which are conspicuously bare.
“I have the ring.”
And for the first time—the very first time—I catch a lie coming off that golden tongue and recognize it for what it is.
Because he doesn’t have the ring. He doesn’t have anything except that backpack that he arrived with, and I went through it myself the night I bought him. No ring.
But I remember it. Hard to forget. Shaped like a snake, the head decorated with a ruby like a drop of blood, and a couple of diamonds for eyes. Lou Clemenza flashed it around as much as he could.
Well, shit…
Is that what the little prince was searching for in the basement? The ring that will confirm him king?
Big Mike shifts his weight. “And the other thing? You made your bones?”
The room goes quiet as they wait for Caligula’s response. Anyone who wants to join the Family, let alone lead it, has to have killed.
It’s no more negotiable than the ring.
Caligula holds Big Mike’s gaze. “That’s a discussion for another time. As I said, I’m not asking anyone to take their oaths tonight. But what I am asking for is information. Someone tried to kill me yesterday at my grandfather’s townhouse.”
That gets a reaction. Muttering, shifting, glances exchanged.
“It’s not the first attempt,” he continues. “Someone has been sending people after me for months. None of them are professionals. Does anyone know who could be behind it?”
One of the older men clears his throat. “I heard something a few weeks back. Through my nephew, who does some work for the Rossi Family. Someone’s been putting the word out at street level. Cash for information on where to find you.”
“How much cash?” I ask.
“Not much. Couple hundred, maybe. Gutter money.”
Nothing else surfaces. Caligula thanks them, tells them to report anything to Ferraro. The Loyalists file out. Ferraro starts to clear the bread and oil, but Caligula stops him.
“I’d like the key to this place, Strike.” The old man hands it over without a peep. “Thank you. Now I’d like a moment alone.”
Ferraro does as ordered, not even taking the bread and oil with him, so that a second later it’s just me and the Clemenza looking at each other in a rundown room with bad lighting.
“Okay,” I say, “what the hell are you playing at? Making nice with the Morellis, lying about the ring—”
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks calmly. “I want some time alone. Go and wait in the car.”
“I’m not your fucking dog. You don’t order me around.”
He looks at me. Those golden eyes have heat in them again at last. “Let me play at being Don Clemenza in my new dollhouse, Dami. Just for a little while.” His voice is light, teasing.
His face is anything but.
Dollhouse. That was my word, spat at him in the basement, standing over him while he was chained and naked and…
I don’t know if I want to strangle him or applaud.
“It’s not safe in here,” I tell him. “But have it your way. That’s what you want to hear, right?”
I slam the door behind me. I hear the deadbolt turning as I stomp down the stairs.
Outside, the December air hits me hard, but it doesn’t cool anything.
I stand on the curb with my breath smoking out in front of me and try to figure out what I’m angry about.
That he played Boss so well? That he threw the basement in my face, and I deserved it?
That he commanded that crowd better than men twice his age, a few days after I broke him?
Or maybe I didn’t break him at all.
Maybe all I broke was the thing holding him back.