“Tino Morelli asked for my advice. Now, though, I’m wondering if he asked merely to see what my plans were, or…” I trail off, my mind working the problem over.
“Or what?” Finch asks. His eyes are open again.
I never share my thoughts with anyone, but I’m frustrated and angry and tired, and if there’s one thing I know about Finch, he’s no fool. He is, as he says, wily.
Also, this particular business does concern him. Fuscone’s determined to kill us, and if Finch can see anything that I miss, it might end up saving us both.
So I come and sit down on the edge of my husband’s hospital bed and tell him a bedtime story.
My Don’s face did not move as I made my proposal to him.
“Making me your Underboss will send a message to the other Families, and to Fuscone as well—that your blessing to split into his own entity is, in fact, a banishment. Making his most hated enemy your Underboss will send a message he can’t miss.”
Augustino Morelli might as well have been a wax statue; even the finger that had stroked his lip stilled while I spoke. Then he closed his eyes and thought, but that movement to close his eyes was the only movement he made.
“I appreciate your candor, Luciano,” he rumbled at last. “It is a bold move you propose. But I think…at this time, you need to learn more.”
“As you say,” I said after a moment, and bowed my head to hide my expression. I’d overplayed my hand. “I have much to learn, it’s true. If I might ask, sir, where would you suggest I first turn my attention?”
And with that, Tino gave me an up and down look. “When you reach a certain level in this Family, you become a symbol more than a man. You understand? You will dine with politicians and judges; rub shoulders with the wealthy and powerful. But you would not do this as Luciano D’Amato. You would represent me.”
I nodded. “I always seek to represent you as respectfully and effectively as I can.”
Tino chuckled. “Luciano, we must know our strengths. You are not what they call…how do they say it? Ah, yes: a people person.”
It takes all my willpower to keep my mouth shut.
I’m a killer and a criminal. Of course I’m not a goddamn people person.
“I can learn.”
He waves his hand. “Of course you can learn. But it will never come naturally to you. Your strengths are in your mind, your keen understanding of tactics and strategy. You will make an excellent Caporegime, and that, my boy, is what I will make you now. Eh? Well, what do you say?”
I bent to Tino’s proffered hand and kiss it with reverence. “You honor me, Don Morelli.”
But what I was really thinking was: this old man is a coward. He does not want to push Fuscone; he does not want to take risks. He thinks making a gay man one of his Capos is an extraordinary thing, a forward-thinking thing, a step that will raise his profile, piss off some people.
But if Tino Morelli had a younger man’s vision, he might see what is possible beyond his immediate need.
“You think Morelli is underestimating you?” Finch asks thoughtfully.
“Of course he is,” I scoff. “I would represent him far better than Fuscone ever could.”
Finch casts a critical eye over me, and I begin to wish I hadn’t started talking about this at all. “Well,” he begins. “We’ve already talked about the suits, D’Amato. They’re atrocious.”
“I can learn,” I snap. “I can dress up in a suit as well as the next man, I just need to have the money first to—”
But Finch is shaking his head. “Style is not about throwing on a suit, baby. Besides, why waste your time learning about men’s fashion? Do you have an interest?”
“Of course not. But if it means—”
“Then outsource, baby. That’s what smart people do. They find the cleverest or best people in their fields, and rely on their judgements.”
I glare at him. “And whose expertise are you suggesting in this instance?”
“Mine, of course,” he says with a cheeky grin.
It’s infuriating, but at the same time, I am relieved to see his smile return. His color is returning to normal, as well. He was so pale when I first saw him. When I first rushed to him.
God, Mikey is lucky Finch pleaded for him. Not to mention Celia. Even Frank should be thanking this silly kid for speaking up.
Finch reaches over to lay cold fingers on my wrist, and I automatically take his hand between mine and rub it to warm it up. “When we were in that warehouse just a few months back,” Finch says, “do you remember what you said to me?”
I shrug. “I remember Sam Fuscone’s nephew looking for a beatdown from me.”
Finch ignores that. “You wondered if we might have compatible goals. You thought we might be useful to each other. Well, I can be useful to you. You even said it yourself on the yacht: you wanted me to pick out some clothes for you.”
What he says is not untrue, but that just makes it more annoying. I did ask him to lend me his sartorial expertise. And truth be told, I used my husband’s advice only today, when I tried to make small talk with those guards at Tino’s house. And it worked, kind of. On my way out, they gave me a respectful nod and said, “Mr. D’Amato,” as a goodbye.
“It’s not just the clothes,” I admit now. If Finch ever uses this information against me, I can always say he was addled from the drugs he accidentally overdosed on. I’m still not fully convinced it was an accident, but I’ll let it go for now. “Tino pointed out that my people skills could do with some…refining.”
Finch starts laughing
