“I know you,” Finch says to him. Finch hasn’t showered; he slept in until ten, so I had to pull him out of bed to introduce him formally to Mikey.
“Yeah, we met,” Mikey says, offering a hand.
Finch just looks at it. “How many guys have you killed with that hand?” he asks, but he says it without any tone in his voice.
Mikey grins and drops his hand with a shrug. “I lost count,” is all he says.
“Behave yourself,” I tell Finch, and then I give the door keys to Mikey. “He doesn’t leave today. Celia’s coming around. She’ll cheer him up.”
“I’m right here,” he says, scowling. “Don’t talk about me like I’m some kid.”
“Stop acting like it and I will,” I tell him. I look at Mikey again. “You hear me? Even with Celia, he doesn’t go out. Not today.”
“What about the fucking chintz curtains?” Finch asks.
A horn sounds off in the street; it’s Frank. Thank God. I’ve had enough of Finch and his bitching for now. I turn my back and walk out without another word. Mikey shakes his head and makes like part of the wallpaper, like he doesn’t approve of the way I’m treating my new husband. But just for today I need Finch to stay there, to behave, to sit it out so I can get the lay of the land.
Two weeks I’ve been out of New York. Two weeks is a long time in our business. Allegiances shift, money moves, people disappear. And my head is still stuffed up with Finch, like cotton balls.
I just need a day to clear my head and get the position of all those chess pieces set up in my mind again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LUCA
“How was the honeymoon?” Frank asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“What’s the situation with Fuscone?” I counter. He knows better than to talk personal when we’re out on business.
“Aw, you’re no fun,” he grouses, and then he gives me the rundown.
Inter-family wars have stirred up again and with them, old cracks within the Morelli family. Fuscone’s never been happy that he wasn’t made Underboss rather than Paul Marino, and he’s never been shy about saying it, either. And on top of that, a long-standing feud over territory boundaries has stirred up again between the Morellis and the Clemenzas. Fuscone has as many ties to the Clemenza Family as he does to the Morellis. If the Morelli Family falls, Fuscone still stands to gain.
For now, though, he seems to be playing on Tino’s side. For now.
It’s all very complex and completely petty at the same time.
“Anyhow, Tino wants to see you,” Frank finishes, wheeling the car around the corner.
“When?”
“Now.”
I give my brother a sharp look. This is news he should have told me sooner.
Frank stands on the brakes and we come to a stop an inch away from the car in front. He’s a shitty driver, which is why I usually prefer Mikey to take the wheel. But needs must. I couldn’t get hold of my first choice of bodyguard for Finch—not yet—and I figured Mikey might be a good fit. He’s good-natured, but he can put his foot down when he needs to.
“I didn’t know till just this morning,” Frank tells me defensively. “Just now when I pulled up at your place. Anyway, aren’t you gonna tell me how the missus is doing?”
“Shut up, Frank,” I sigh. “And show some respect.”
He chuckles and takes another corner on two wheels. “Well, Celia’s into him. She always wanted a gay BFF, and that was never gonna be you, was it?”
We arrive at Tino’s place. He lives in a fancy-but-not-noticeable area of the city, and there are cameras all over the place—his own and the Feds’. Today there are two Morelli guards out the front, too. Things must be serious. Frank gives a grim look at me.
“It’s getting serious.”
“I can see that.”
“It was you he asked for,” he says. “I’ll wait here.”
“I don’t like you out here in the open.”
He shrugs. “No one’s interested in a foot soldier.”
I grip his shoulder. “I am,” I tell him. “You’re not allowed to die, Frankie. Not while I need you. Understand?”
I leave him laughing.
The two guards know me; I recognize them from a different crew and give them the nod. Usually I’d go right in, but my husband’s advice about treating underlings better is sticking in my brain for some reason, so I pause. “It’s…Nick, right? And Bobby?”
I can’t quite remember which is which, but they nod, looking surprised.
“How’s it been out here?” I ask. I can’t recall if either are married or have kids, otherwise I’d ask after them. So I stick to business.
They stare dumbly at me before one of them says, “Real quiet, Mr. D’Amato, real quiet.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I say, and they nod again. I attempt a smile, but quit it when it only seems to provoke terror. “Well, Mr. Morelli is expecting me, I believe.”
Nick, or maybe Bobby, opens the door for me, and I’m greeted in the hallway by Angelo Messina, who gives me a nod before he holds out his hand.
“I’ll take the gun today,” he says calmly.
“Come on, Angelo, you know me.”
“I’ll take the gun today.”
I hand it over, and he locks it away before taking me through the house to the conservatory, where Tino likes to take his breakfast. For Tino, that means espresso and biscotti. He’s reading the papers—he gets them all, even the tabloids—and his first cigar of the day waits on a satin napkin next to his coffee. He stands up when I approach, smiling happily, and kisses me on both cheeks.
“Don Morelli, you look well.”
“My boy!” he booms. “It’s good to see you. How was the Maddalena, eh? Did she behave for you?”
I have to be careful here. Does he know about the assassin? It could be a veiled threat, or it could be a request for information, or it could be just
