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 Fuscone I’ve disrespected, and Fuscone’s a fool. He is, but that’s not news. He’s Tino’s lieutenant due to a complex web of Family traditions, favors and debts, and that’s that.
Besides, I have a much more compelling argument.
“I owe the Irish kid my life,” I say simply. “Many years ago he saved me, before you allowed me to join the Family. My brother can support my claim as well—you can ask Frank if you like. It was a debt that I could never repay…until now.”
Tino looks me up and down, rather like he stared at Finch. “Fuscone doesn’t like queers,” he says.
“There aren’t many in the Family who do,” I say neutrally.
Tino gives a slow nod. “You’ve always been straight with me, Luciano, if you’ll excuse the pun.” I give the polite, expected smile at the poor joke. “So now it’s time for me to be straight with you. I don’t like Fuscone’s idea to whack the Donovan kid and I don’t like that he didn’t come to me about it. We got rid of the Irish back in my day, whipped ’em hard and drove ’em back to Boston. But it’s never seemed a thing to gloat about, not to me. The Donovans were a hard family back then, but they’re soft now. Soft and rich. Old Howard, he’s always known the score, even if he snaps behind the muzzle from time to time. I don’t like the way Fuscone’s been pushing him; he’s gonna bleed that Irish bank dry if he’s not careful.”
I take in every word he’s saying, adding it to my internal database. I take it in like it’s Julius Caesar letting me in on his strategic decisions. Tino is a modern Emperor, after all. He’d cross the Rubicon as easy as he does the Hudson.
“But Fuscone is my man, and I don’t like to contradict him on this,” Tino says. “It makes him seem weak if I give in to his underling. Makes me seem weak.”
I nod. “I understand,” is all I say, and I wait. I know Tino is testing me, somehow. But Tino is not only a clever man, he’s a fair one. I trust him—more than I trust most people, anyway.
Usually I’d have plans B, C and D in the back of my mind if Tino’s decision doesn’t go my way. But right now I only see one other way out of this if Tino doesn’t come down on my side, and it involves killing a lot of people.
The reality is, I’m fucked if this doesn’t go my way, so I really hope my faith in Tino has not been misplaced. But he surprises me then.
“Tell me, Luciano: if you were me, what would you do?”
“I would never presume to—”
“Of course not. But I’m asking you to presume. I want to know what you think I should do.”
I cough, and ask if I can take a glass of water. Tino nods, amused, as though he knows I’m only trying to give myself time to think. He sends a plume of cigar smoke up while he waits.
“Fuscone isn’t really interested in the kid. He just wants to make sure the Donovans pay up. But the Donovan kid is worth more to us alive than dead,” I say carefully. “He’s the only male child Howard Donovan has. If we take out his son, Donovan could go two ways: he could fire up or he could break. Neither would be good for us. It could start another war with the Irish. Or if he flips and goes to the Feds…” I spread my hands. “On the other hand, it could destroy him completely, and his business suffers, and we’d still end up with nothing in that case.”
“So? What do we do?”
I note the “we,” and feel my heart beat a little faster. “We keep the kid,” I say confidently. “In the old days, medieval times, a royal hostage ensured one House would not rise against another. It was a political move, keeping the kids of royalty. We could keep the Donovan kid as leverage over his father.”
“Keep him, eh? Hand him over to Sam Fuscone as a prisoner?”
Shit. “Of course not,” I say quickly. “We treat him well and keep him happy; his father sees it, he’s more likely to go along with what we want him to do.”
Tino gives me a smile then, a slow, face-expanding smile, and wags a finger at me. “See?” he asks of no one in particular. “Y’see? I knew you had it in you. I always said you were a smart one. Luciano, my boy, I like your idea. Only, you’re talking about a political hostage. I’ll go you one better.”
I follow Tino back into the room where they’re all waiting. Finch looks more like a defenseless baby bird than ever, blinking nervously, breathing hard. He’s sweating and sickly-looking—he’s coming down, hard. Frank is letting Finch lean on him, half holding the kid up. Fuscone and his nephew are stewing and muttering in the other corner. Angelo, who has the face of a fashion model and the heart of a warrior, is reading a magazine over by the window, supremely unconcerned. That’s the kind of man I want protecting me when I’m king.
Still, Finch’s drug situation is one we will have to address, assuming Fuscone doesn’t just shoot us all after Tino announces his decision.
One part of me is appalled by Tino’s malicious sense of humor. The other part is interested to see how everyone will react. It’ll be a test of character, if nothing else.
Tino doesn’t sit back down; he leans against the table, looking at us all as we line up again in front of him. I make sure to have Finch in between me and Frank. I just hope his crash doesn’t make him mouthy again.
“Listen up,” Tino says unnecessarily. It’s so quiet in the room I can hear Finch’s harsh, uneven breathing. “This is how it’s gonna be. The Donovan kid stays alive.” Fuscone gives a low growl, which earns him a stare from Angelo. “He stays alive,” Tino repeats. “Luciano owes him a debt of honor, and he also made some eloquent points about how useful the Irish kid is alive. Only he doesn’t get to go back to his daddy. He stays with us.”
“A hostage?” Fuscone sneers. “He’ll just try to escape.” The word comes out excape.
“No he won’t,” Tino says, looking at Finch, who shakes his head rapidly in agreement. “Because he’s not gonna be a hostage. He’s gonna be our new ally.”
Fuscone makes an involuntary movement next to me, but I stay as still as ever. A man who can’t control his own body can hardly control others. “That’s right,” Tino continues, “this kid is gonna marry into the Family.”
Finch goes from green to sheet-white. “But I’m—”
Frank gives him a sharp prod in the side, and the kid shuts up, thank God.
Tino gives Finch his patented fatherly look. “I know what you are, kid; we all know. Times have changed, though. Tradition is important, but I like to be, uh…socially aware where we can. So I’m not gonna force you onto someone’s daughter. That would be a despicable thing to do, to the both of you. No. You’ll marry Luciano, here, and you’ll be a wonderful, dutiful husband to him. You hear?”
I don’t look at him, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Finch’s mouth fall open. I know how he feels. Mine fell open when Tino suggested it, too.
Joey Fuscone, Sam’s nephew, snorts and laughs; he thinks it’s a joke. His uncle knows it’s not.
“No fuckin’ way,” Fuscone says, his tone dark and dangerous. Angelo pulls out his gun. No one talks to Tino like that. Fuscone reels it back in. “Tino, come on, you’re joking, right? The crew can’t have a couple of fairies running around town representin’ us. We’ll be a laughingstock!” His voice gets louder and louder, and he’s rocking on his feet. I glance at him and see his face has gone puce.
One day Fuscone’s just going to keel over and die from a stroke. I hope I get to kill him before that day comes.
“That is my decision,” Tino says simply. “It solves your money problems, Sam. Howard Donovan will
play ball if we have his son as leverage. You have no quarrel with this lad, after all, only his father. Isn’t that right?”
Fuscone, still seething, points at me. “The money ain’t my only problem, Tino! This fucker disrespected me. You gonna reward him for that?”
Angelo takes a step forward.
Tino folds his arms and leans back, staring at Fuscone from under his brows. “You think me marrying these two off is a reward, eh? Are you so happy in your own marriage?”
I can sense a change in Fuscone, even if I can’t see his face.
Tino gestures to me. “Does Luciano look like this is a reward to him?” Fuscone looks me over, and I try to keep my face looking disappointed, if not downright bitter about the whole thing.
In fact, I just don’t know how to feel.
“And another thing,” Tino says. “I may put up with you lot running around on your wives, but I expect this to be a real marriage.” He looks at me and Finch. “That means you’re faithful unto death, you hear me? You don’t go outside the marriage bed. I catch word of you out sniffing around, D’Amato, we’re gonna have a problem.”
Fuscone really likes that.
I don’t.
I take my pleasure where I find it, with men who don’t know who I am, or don’t want to. That’s what makes Finch so infuriating with his insistence that he somehow knows me. I have a reputation for getting a lot of tail, and that’s earned me respect in the Family, even if they still hate me for being queer.
But I just give Tino a nod. I’d resigned myself to a loveless and mostly-sexless marriage with some hapless Mob princess down the line anyway. I always assumed we’d have a few unsatisfying fucks so I could knock her up for the next generation, although we would never have the thirteen kids of a good Catholic family. I figured as long as I did that familial duty, I could take my pleasure with rent boys. It’s what the rest of these fools do, after all: have their whores on the side. Except Frank. He worships the ground his Celia walks on.
I’m under no illusions, though. I might have talked Tino into saving Finch, but this marriage will be a joke to Fuscone and his allies, and more than that, the target on the back of my head just got bigger. I’ve never hidden who I am. What kind of tough guy would I be if I pretended to be something I’m not? But it’s always been a reason for hatred and mistrust from others in the Family. Tino broke with tradition when he made me, but at least I have my Italian surname. Now I won’t have a wife or family to tie me any closer to the rest of them.
I give my soon-to-be-husband a glance. He’s swaying on his feet, clammy. Frank is holding him up by the waist now. I try to think about the fact that I’m being shackled to a druggie slut, but I can’t make myself feel the contempt I normally would. All I can think about is that face appearing out of the crowd in a nightclub, five years back.
My guardian angel.
Now he’s my flightless bird. I’ll have to keep his wings clipped, at least till I’ve dealt with the Fuscone problem, because Fuscone still means to do murder. I can smell it on him.
If for one moment Fuscone suspects I don’t hate this situation, he’ll break ranks to kills me—Tino or no Tino.
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” Fuscone brays. He’s gone from fury to delight. “I want a nice white wedding, and I’ll walk you down the aisle, D’Amato. You’ve always been like a son to me, after all.”
“I’ll be walking Luciano down the aisle,” Tino says mildly, and it wipes the smile off Fuscone’s face. Tino’s presence will lend this whole thing legitimacy.
Maybe I’ve read him wrong. Maybe this really will be my chance to take the next step. Tino prefers family men in his Family, although he never married himself. “I’ll organize the license with our favorite judge. We don’t want to have to wait. Frank, perhaps your lovely wife would like to arrange a small ceremony, and extend the invitation to the Donovan family? And you boys—” Tino gives me and Finch another glower. “I mean it. This will be until death do you part. If you’re in, you’re in.”
There’s a silence in the room. I nod.
Then from my right: “What if I say no?”
I close my eyes. Finch and his fucking mouth.
Tino gives him a sympathetic look. “Mr. Donovan, let me be clear. I will be extending an invitation to your father. Whether that invitation is to your wedding or your funeral is up to you, but you are of course welcome to decline the offer of marriage.”
I blow out a long breath as quietly as I can while we wait for Finch’s reply.
Finch laughs his dangerous fuck-the-world, death-wish laugh and I want to strangle him myself.
“Do I get to wear a big white dress?”
Chapter Nine
FINCH
I don’t get to wear a big white dress, but I do get to wear a white Dolce & Gabbana tux with a vest the same color as my eyes, or so Brother Frank’s wife Celia squealed when we picked out the material.
Celia D’Amato has been lumbered with organizing the whole shindig, but you’d think it was the only thing she’d ever wanted to do in her whole damn life. She’s had me fitted for the tux after consulting with me on which designer I’d prefer, gone over wedding invitations with me, brought cake after cake for me to test out, and bless her fucking heart, slipped me all the benzos I could handle and then some. She’s worked miracles to get it together in one week: the deadline Augustino Morelli set for the wedding.
It’s a literal deadline. Either Luca and I are married by the end of today, or I’m dead.
Frankly, I think Luca might kill me himself if Tino doesn’t get round to it. The day my bachelorhood died a quiet death, we left Tino’s lush home in a black-windowed car, driven by some guy called Mikey, with Brother Frank in the front with him, and Luca and me in the back, although I still wasn’t used to calling him Luca then. In fact, the first thing I said after he put the privacy window up was, “So it’s Luciano D’Amato, huh? Or can I still take Georgie as my awful wedded husband?”
“Lawful, not awful. For fuck’s sake.”
I just laughed. “Lawful is not a word to describe you, sugar. Are you ever gonna tell me where ‘Georgie’ came from?”
“No. And it’s Luca. Tino’s the only one who calls me Luciano.”
“Suit yourself, Luca. You got a cigarette on you? I’m jonesing.”
“I quit.”
“Damn. Hm. So, where will we go for our honeymoon?”
Celia sorted that out for us, too, even though I was just kidding at the time. Tino Morelli has been serious as hell about the whole thing, and we’re going to spend two weeks in the Bahamas on Tino’s own boat, the Maddalena, once the ceremony’s done.
But first we have to make it through the ceremony.
I barely saw Luca between what I thought of as The Proposal and The Wedding. I was kept tucked away in an apartment in Central Park West, not my preferred side of the Park, and nowhere near Luca as far as I could tell. There were two big muscly guys with guns guarding the door at all times, one inside and one outside. I saw a whole lot of Celia, though, and of my three sisters, who were allowed in to see me, although Pops wasn’t.
Or at least, he didn’t come around.
When I asked how Pops was taking the whole thing, none of my sisters would tell me. “He’s just happy you’re okay,” Maggie, my oldest sister, finally said. Then she started talking floral arrangements with Celia. The two of them are new BFFs, or so it seems.
Maggie’s got ten years on me. She was twenty-three when Mom died, and I guess she handled it better than the rest of us. Better than me, that’s for sure. I was a mess. Pops was a mess, too. Maggie was the one who kept her shit together, pulled the rest of us through. But she’s never been what I’d call warm towards me. No, Maggie’s the ice maiden type.
Thank God for Celia, though, who smuggled in uppers and downers as needed. I’ve never really been one for soccer mom prescriptions, but it was better than facing those four boring walls sober.
And no
w the big day has arrived.
I’ve been dressed, primped and cooed over by my four attendants: sisters Maggie, Róisín and Tara, and of course Celia. They’ve spent the morning shrieking, drinking, and having their hair and makeup done by a YouTube star Celia hired for the occasion.
I’ve been too out of it to take much in. Maggie comes over to me now and puts her hand on mine, and I think it might be the warmest gesture she’s ever made to me. She looks so much like Mom: pale orange hair, smooth white skin, but Maggie has the deep blue Donovan eyes rather than Mom’s green ones, and she doesn’t have Mom’s warm disposition. Well, it’s not like we ever had much in common. But right now she’s half-tipsy on champagne.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
“Dandy,” I say, because it’s the only word I can think of. “Where’s Pops?”
“He’ll be in the limo with you,” she says, and when I shudder, she adds, “It’s armor-plated.”
“I wonder what Mom would think of all this.”
“Don’t think about that,” she advises. “It’ll just make you maudlin.”
“It’s my wedding day. What better time to think about Mom?” Think about Mom’s brains splattered all over me. We were in a limo when it happened, too. “You like Celia?” I ask, to change the subject.
“She’s sweet. A little déclassée, maybe. I believe you’re marrying down, sweetheart, but as long as you’re happy. Celia loves you already. But then, who wouldn’t?”
Maggie, for one. Pops, for two. Luca D’Amato for a third. But Maggie’s comment about my happiness makes me wonder what story’s been spread around about the wedding. No one’s asked how long Luca and I have been dating, or why they’ve never met him before today. My fiancé appeared fully-formed out of the ether and everyone seems to be ignoring the lack of backstory.
There’s a silent understanding, I guess.
Married to the Mobster Page 6