“She’s a lovely yacht,” I tell him politely. “We’re indebted to you for allowing us—”
“Please, please,” he says, waving away my niceties. “We are Famiglia. What’s mine is yours. Come, sit. You want espresso?”
I accept his hospitality, and we chat about mundane things while the house staff come and go, bringing more coffee, more biscotti. Only once they’ve gone and Angelo has retreated into a corner does Tino fold up his paper, light his cigar, and look at me closely over his half-glasses.
“I hear you had some troubles out on the ocean,” he says in a low voice.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, sir.”
He leans forward in his chair. “Oh, I have no doubt of that, Luciano. I heard from Nunzio that one of the new hires didn’t work out so well.”
I study Tino’s face and I think about the lack of wires on the Maddalena. While he could be screwing me over, threatening me, I don’t think he is. “It might be a good idea for Nunzio to revisit his hiring principles, Don Morelli,” I say, inclining my head.
He gives a laugh, and then gets serious. “I’m sorry that happened to you on your honeymoon, my boy, and Nunzio asked me to extend his apologies also. I am sorry and I am concerned.”
I shrug. “Fuscone was never going to like your play with the Donovan kid. But now he’s a man down, so I guess we’re even from my perspective.”
Tino frowns. “You think this was Fuscone’s work? Perhaps. If so, he moved against me when he moved against you. It is true that Fuscone has become…a problem while you’ve been away.”
I pause, thinking things over. “Perhaps your consigliere can advise—”
Tino waves an impatient hand. “Scarpetti and Fuscone share a grandfather. Scarpetti is a financial genius and he gives excellent advice. But in this matter, I cannot go to him. This is why I come to you, Luciano. You made a case for your lover—”
“He’s not my lover,” I say at once, and then bow my head. “Forgive me, Don Morelli, I mean no disrespect.”
Tino gives a slow nod. “No apologies needed, Luciano. You defend your charge; you call him husband, not lover. That’s as it should be. I’m glad to see you take your role seriously. And how is the Irish lad?”
“He is…” I hesitate. I don’t want to add fuel to any fires, and I don’t know if Tino is just being polite, asking after Finch. “He’s adjusting.” That seems safe enough to say.
Tino nods sagely. “It will take him some time. And you treat him well, you hear me? Now, about Fuscone. What would you advise?”
There’s one obvious route, but the last thing we need right now is another round of internecine warfare in the city, so killing Fuscone is not an option. Not without also killing Scarpetti and all the men loyal to Fuscone’s faction, certainly. Decimating the Morelli ranks with bloodshed would only further disturb Tino’s hold on power.
I say slowly, “There is one way to remove Fuscone that will not result in a war. It would mean giving up some small areas to him, but there are several pockets where it seems more trouble than it’s worth to hold on to our influence. And it would also give us an opportunity to get in some new blood, too.”
Tino picks up what I’m putting down. “You suggest I release Fuscone and give him my blessing to head up his own family.” I nod. “But it may seem that I am rewarding him, retreating from him, giving in to him,” he points out, tapping his lip in thought.
“Then make it clear you are not.”
“And how do I do that, Luciano?”
It’s time to reveal my cards. “By making me your Underboss.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
FINCH
The view out the bedroom window is of a brick wall. There’s not even any windows in that wall, so I can’t perv on anyone, or signal for some help, or just dance around nude and give someone a show. The only other window in this place is in the kitchen, and it looks onto the street, but Mikey won’t let me get near it. He’s as bored as I am, but he handles it better.
I can’t sit still. I shit, shave and shower, but after that, there’s nothing to do except watch daytime TV on a box that I bet is older than I am, and Luca doesn’t even have cable.
How does he live?
There’s no internet, either, but that doesn’t matter since I’m still not allowed to have a phone. What do these fuckers think I’m gonna do, rally the Irish Mob to launch a rescue?
Yeah, right.
No one in Boston would put their life on the line for me. If anything, I bet my Pops is relieved he got rid of the deadwood. Meanwhile, Luca doesn’t think I have anything to offer because I don’t know anything about my own family.
And on top of all that, apparently I’m broke.
It’s enough to make a boy feel a little despondent. Even an effervescent little hottie like me. I wonder what Mom would say if she could see me now?
I spend the morning pacing up and down the apartment, wondering how anyone could really live their life in something the size of this. The walls are closing in on me. And then, thank God, the blessed Saint Celia arrives with her little bag of tricks. She’s careful to show me away from Mikey when his back is turned, and gives me a wink.
I know I promised Luca, but I’m going crazy stuck here with nothing to do, nothing to keep my mind occupied…and apparently this is my life, now. This is how it’s going to be for a long time to come, according to Luca.
And if I’m really honest with myself, maybe I just want a safety net if things get too much for me. I don’t like the way Luca knows all about my shitty past. Suicide attempts, he called them.
