“I honor my debts,” he says again. “We’ll go to the Boss, I’ll tell him the score, and accept his judgement. One way or the other.”
“One way or the other,” I echo. “Seems fair. How about a kiss for old time’s sake? One last kiss before we jump into the void?” I’m shivering, and I don’t know whether it’s because I’m coming down from the drugs, or because I’m genuinely cold, or because I’m genuinely terrified.
He comes close, and runs a hand through my hair. “You still have the face of an angel,” he says. And he does lean in and brush his lips against my forehead. “Pray to Mary to intercede for us, baby bird,” he advises. “And we might get out of this alive.”
Wow, such confidence.
Chapter Eight
LUCA
Don Augustino Morelli has always given me more leeway than usual when it comes to my Caporegime, Sam Fuscone. Fuscone is small fry; Tino has always been my model for power. And I like to flatter myself that he sees me as having potential.
We all file into Tino’s dining room: me, Frank, Fuscone, and his half-wit nephew. Outside in the antechamber sits Howard Fincher Donovan the Third, another bag over his head and surrounded by men with guns. Tino Morelli sits behind the dinner table like a medieval king. We go one by one to kiss his hand and then stand in a line in front of him. We are the prisoners; he is the firing squad.
“Ah, it’s those damn D’Amato brothers,” he says, smiling at me and then at Frank. We bow our heads respectfully. “You two always seem to be getting into trouble,” Tino continues, wagging a thick finger at us. He’s old, but he still wields the mantle of power like a second skin.
“Aw, you know us, Tino,” Frank says, looking up with a grin. Frank’s lucky he’s so well-liked. He’s even charming, in his way. I’m not. But that’s alright; I have other skills.
I raise my head and look my Boss straight in the eye. “My apologies, Don Morelli. We’ve interrupted your dinner with our petty problems.”
He regards me with calm eyes. I never know quite what he’s thinking, and there aren’t many men I can say that about.
Sam Fuscone blusters then, furious that those damn D’Amato brothers (he’s the one who started that particular nickname) have begun to direct the conversation. If only he knew how defensive it makes him sound. “This asshole, he don’t do what he’s told, Tino. He’s always talking shit about me and—”
Tino holds up one hand, and Fuscone shuts his yap. Even he isn’t dumb enough to keep going when the Don calls a halt. “And who is our guest waiting outside?”
“He’s that mick Donovan’s son, and I want him dead,” Fuscone snarls.
“I don’t like these slurs you throw around, Sam,” Tino chides him calmly. “We are businessmen. We don’t need to use ugly words to run our business. We are, what is the term they use these days?” He glances at me, but I stay quiet. “An equal opportunity employer,” he says at last. “Are we not?”
Fuscone growls an apology and Tino goes back to his meal, forking off another piece of his osso buco and savoring the flesh.
We all wait.
At last, Tino looks to the back of the room where his bodyguard Angelo Messina lurks. He gives a nod, and Angelo goes into the other room and comes back with Finch. The bag on Finch’s head turns this way and that as he tries to scope out the room even though he can’t see anything. It might even be funny, if I didn’t think I was likely to die in the next half hour or so.
I pull Finch to me by the other elbow and mutter, “Keep your mouth shut,” to him before I turn back to my Boss and say politely, “This is Howard Donovan Junior’s son, Howard Donovan the Third.”
“That’s a dead guy walking,” Fuscone mutters ominously.
“He seems very much alive to me,” Tino says. “Remove the hood, please.”
I do. Tino puts on his glasses and gives Finch an up-and-down stare. I pray to God that Finch will keep his smart mouth under control, but happily the imminent nature of his death finally seems to have got through to him.
Once he’s scoped out the Irish kid, the Boss closes his eyes for a moment and thinks. Then he looks over at me. “Would you care to explain why you did not carry out your orders?”
I hesitate without seeming to. Is it best to do this here, in the open, or behind closed doors? “Don Morelli, I beg your indulgence. Can we have a moment alone?”
“No, you fucking can’t!” Fuscone barks, just like I hoped he would, while I keep my smirk under control.
Tino’s glance is enough to shut Fuscone up, and then the aging head of the Morelli Family rises from his chair like it’s a throne. He flicks his head at me in a come on gesture. I let go of Finch’s arm to go after my Boss, but the kid makes a panicked noise and grabs at me.
“No,” I tell him calmly. “You stay here. Stay with Frank.”
That bronze skin of his has a decidedly greenish patina to it now. I wonder exactly how far into the drug hole this angel has crawled. But it’s the least of my concerns right now, as I follow Tino into the next room.
He’s sitting in a massive armchair, lighting an after-dinner cigar and pouring himself a cognac. “Don’t sit down,” he tells me, and that’s when I know I’m going to have to play this very carefully. “You have one minute to explain to me why you think you know better than Fuscone. He is my representative, is he not?” I nod my head. “Then explain, Luciano. Help me understand why you’ve shown me such disrespect by disobeying an order.”
I won’t go for the bait he’s swinging in front of me by arguing that it’s only
