Chapter 34
DAMIANO
I really did mean to kill him. One quick snap and that delicate neck would have fractured.
A mercy, compared to what the Bratva will do to him.
But then he started talking about Sammy’s birthday, and my plan, the logical plan I’d figured out while Vito drove around Manhattan, and I thought about my father, and about Caligula’s father, and about Caligula most of all…
He started talking, and that plan evaporated.
My hand went to his throat, and he looked up at me with total trust. Instead of strangling him, I kissed him. Instead of killing him, I fucked him.
And now I’ve woken with him sleeping in my arms, and I still can’t seem to make myself do it.
I’ll do it tomorrow. Or the next day.
Definitely before the end of the week, before I’m supposed to hand him over.
I’ll make it so quick, so painless. He won’t see it coming.
But first, it’s Sammy’s birthday. Because Caligula was right: Sammy deserves to feel like he matters.
I slide out of the bed carefully. He stirs and then curls into the warm space I left. His hand reaches for where I was and settles on the sheet.
I shower fast, dress, and stand in the doorway looking at him one more time. The covers have slipped to his waist. His mouth is slightly open.
I could cross back over there. Put my hand over his mouth and nose. He’d wake up confused, but not frightened, expecting pleasure, not oblivion…
I leave him sleeping.
It’s past seven already; if I want to get Benedetti here today for Sammy, I need to contact him soon.
In the sunroom, Rosa has laid out breakfast already, and is just on the way out when I come in.
“Get hold of Lorenzo Benedetti, would you?” I ask her as we pass each other.
“I want him here this afternoon. And tell Sammy I need him, too.”
“It’s his birthday,” she protests. “Give him the afternoon off, at least.”
“It’s for his birthday,” I growl. “And it’s supposed to be a surprise, so don’t go opening your mouth, woman.”
She stares at me in surprise for a moment, but I catch a tiny smile as she turns away, saying over her shoulder, “I will arrange it.”
I was going to eat alone, but when I look at the amount of food Rosa’s laid out, I think better of it and go back to wake Caligula. He’s already stirring, and gives me a sleepy smile when I bend over the bed.
“Get up,” I say. “You need to eat.”
If there’s one thing I don’t want him dying of, it’s starvation.
“Sir, yes, sir,” he says, his imitation of a military cadet somewhat ruined by the enormous yawn that follows.
He wraps himself in my robe again and follows me to the sunroom, where I make him pile his plate up.
“Dami, I’m really not that hungry,” he complains at last. “I’d rather just have coffee and maybe a slice of—”
“You eat when I tell you to eat, and what I tell you to eat.”
His eyes slide to me under his lashes. “Sir, yes, sir,” he murmurs under his breath.
But he doesn’t sound like he minds it all that much, being ordered around.
I wasn’t sure about including him in the celebrations today for Sammy. But Benedetti likes him. And that might be useful, since I’ve got no idea how Sammy is going to respond to this whole thing.
We gather in the great room at three: Vito, Rosa, and Sammy, who’s glaring at Caligula. I can’t blame him. But Caligula, for his part, tries to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. He takes a seat to the side, and I let him, even though my first instinct is to tell him to sit closer to me.
I feel awkward. These are my people, but I’m never soft with them. I provide for them: money, safety, a roof over their heads. But this, all this fuss and nonsense, this ain’t me, and it’s making me uncomfortable.
Sammy’s reaction is not helping. He’s suspicious. He knows something is going on, but I’ve never done anything for his birthday before. He keeps watching me with those big, wary eyes like I’m about to tear him a new one.
But Caligula was right; Sammy is into fashion. Today he’s wearing black jeans with holes he put in the knees himself, decorated down the sides with metal studs. He’s always liked a punk rock aesthetic, and it suits him. He has taste, which I don’t. He just doesn’t have the resources to indulge it.
That’s where I can help him out.
Caligula is staring at me now, and when I finally meet his gaze, he widens his eyes and looks meaningfully at Sammy.
“Oh. So, uh,” I stammer out. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”
“Thanks,” he says flatly. He’s still not sure what’s going on.
“Well, the reason we’re all here,” I go on awkwardly, “is because I got Lorenzo Benedetti coming over. He’s gonna make you a suit. For your birthday. I…hope you like it.”
The blank look stays on Sammy’s face for a few seconds as he processes, and then his eyes widen. “Lorenzo Benedetti is coming here? For…me?”
“That’s what I said.”
He’s still staring at me. And then he does something he’s never done before—he flies across the room and hugs me, hard.
Apart from the time he tried to feel me up while I was asleep, Sammy has never been all that touchy-feely. He never hugs. He barely even likes to shake hands. I always assumed it was because of everything he went through as a kid, and then on the streets, trying to make a living.
Now his arms are tight around my neck, and I don’t know what the hell to do with my hands. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but if I stand here like a rock, it’s probably worse.
Over Sammy’s shoulder, Caligula gives a small smile and nods at me encouragingly. So I place one hand awkwardly around Sammy and give him a pat on the back.
I’ve had Sammy here for years and never once thought to get him a birthday present. Caligula has been here a couple of weeks, and noticed things about Sammy that I never bothered to. What does that say about me?
Nothing good, that’s for sure.
Sammy pulls away, his eyes too bright, and he’s blinking rapidly. “Thank you,” he says, and his voice only breaks a little.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted by the doorbell.
Rosa goes to answer the front door, and we hear the slide of the metal barrier as it comes up.
A second later, Benedetti bustles into the room following Rosa, and behind him is some young guy I’ve never seen before.
Tall, well-dressed, dark-eyed, with a grin that could sell you a car you don’t need.
I move forward at once, alert for danger, but Caligula pushes himself off the wall and hurries over. “Ricky,” he says warmly. “Long time.”
They do a handclasp that turns into a backslap. “Cal. Looking sharp as always.”
“I think I have you to thank for that.”
“Damn right you do. Did I do you proud?”
“You did.” He gestures to me. “This is Damiano Orsini. Dami, this is Riccardo Benedetti, Lorenzo’s grandson.” I realize then that this must be the grandson who helped pick out all those clothes I bought Caligula in a moment of…what? Weakness? Insanity?
I don’t even know.
Caligula turns to the old tailor, who’s beaming at him as usual. “Lorenzo,” he says warmly, “so wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Signor Clemenza, and you.”
I’m glad I decided to bring the Clemenza down here, because he’s smoothing things over in that charming way he has. After I shake hands with the grandson and watch him take in the room, eyes lingering on Sammy, I motion the birthday boy forward. “This is Sammy,” I say. “He needs a suit.”
Sammy stands there mutely, but Ricky looks him head to toe with the kind of appreciation I’d expect to see at a nightclub instead of in my own damn living room.
“Hey,” he says. Only it’s all drawn out—heeeyyy—like there’s some offer hiding behind a single word.
I’m about to tell him to back off and take his eyes with him, when Sammy gives a small smile. “Hey,” he says back.
“Cool jeans,” Ricky says. “You do them yourself?”
“Yeah.” Sammy is taciturn as ever, but there’s something about the way he hasn’t stopped looking at this Ricky Benedetti that is pretty different from the way he looks at Caligula Clemenza.
And speak of the devil, Caligula has slipped away to the side once more, making himself part of the furniture as much as possible.
“Well, I guess we better get on with it,” I say, not sure if I like this Ricky Benedetti making eyes at Sammy like he is.
He’s too good-looking and too well-dressed.
Sammy doesn’t need to be hurt again. Today was supposed to be me making up for all the bullshit I’ve piled on him over the couple of years he’s been here.
But as soon as Benedetti Senior approaches with a measuring tape and lays it out across his chest, Sammy flinches and steps back.
Shit. I should’ve known this would be a bad idea. The last thing Sammy wants is some old man’s hands all over him—
“Come on, Gramps,” Ricky says easily. “Sammy doesn’t need an audience for this. Besides, I need the practice.” He grins at Sammy. “How about I take your measurements somewhere private? We’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”
His grandfather hesitates, frowning a little, but Sammy is already nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s do that. We could go to my bedroom.”
“The hell you will,” I snap. “The two of you stay right here, and the rest of us will clear out. Call me back as soon as you’re done, okay, Sammy?”
Sammy gives me the kind of look he usually saves for Caligula, but says, “Whatever.”
“Make sure you get everything necessary,” Lorenzo Benedetti says in a low voice to his grandson, and then adds softly in Italian, “And don’t spend all your time flirting.”
Great. Even his own grandfather thinks the kid’s a player. I don’t think I want to leave Sammy with—
“Come on, Dami,” Caligula says, appearing at my elbow and threading his arm through mine to steer me out of the room.
Everyone else follows us out, but I call back over my shoulder, “You just yell out if you need anything, Sammy. We’ll be right here in the foyer.”
“We’ll be fine, Mr. Orsini,” Ricky says with a cheeky grin, as he shuts the doors of my great room in my face.