I realize I’ve gone too far when his gold-green eyes fill with tears. I figure at first it’s a tantrum: the rich bitch wants his own way, and he’ll cry and scream till he gets it. But Finch just grabs his suitcase and mutters, “Whatever,” before stalking down to the bedroom.
I hesitate, wondering how to handle this situation, and that’s not like me, not like the old Luca D’Amato. Usually I know my own mind. But this is tricky. I ponder another moment or two, and then I follow him.
The bedroom door is closed, and when I open it, Finch is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, his suitcase unopened on the floor next to him.
“Angel, I tried to tell you,” I sigh. “This marriage is not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be a punishment.”
He doesn’t look up; he just slumps over onto the bed—which Frank, I presume, has made up with sheets—and closes his eyes. It’s not late, but it’s not early, either, so I leave him there and hope he’ll get some sleep.
I don’t dare touch him, try to comfort him. It’ll only cloud my mind.
I set myself up in the living room on the couch with no springs in it, and I’m drowsing in front of late-night TV when I’m woken by something.
It’s a metal rattling getting louder and louder, and now free-wheeling curse words carry through the apartment. My husband has a mouth on him. I go through to the bedroom to see what the commotion is.
Just like I thought, Finch is standing at the window, shaking the bars. “Why the fuck are bars even on windows this high?” he hollers at me.
“I asked Frank to put them on.”
“Why?”
I lean against the door jamb, rubbing sleep out of my eye. “Because I know you, angel, just like you think you know me. Oh, I know all about you. Your depressive episodes, the PTSD, the suicide attempts—you think I’d leave you an easy option out the window? No way. You’re stuck with me till you get old and gray. But on the plus side, I’m sworn to protect you. That life with me? I guarantee it’ll be a long one.”
Finch just lays himself out on the bed again and goes back to sleep. I spend the whole night on the sofa. If he wants to try the front door, he’ll have to go past me, and I’m a light sleeper.
But nothing disturbs me in the night, and the next day I tell him Celia’s coming around to see him. He seems to like her, at least, and it does seem to lift the deep black mood to dark gray. “You’ll also meet your new bodyguard,” I throw out casually. But he doesn’t seem to care. I have work to get back to, thanks to the unrest starting up again in the city, but I wait around until Mikey gets there.
“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 mea
ns 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 general small talk to break the ice.
“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. But they really weren’t. They were just…accidents. Like sticking my thumb out on the side of the road to see if Death might pull over and give me a ride.
He never did.
So I clasp my hands and mouth Thank You! at Celia before stashing the pills quietly in the back of my underwear drawer. It seems as good a time as any then to unpack my honeymoon bags into the empty dresser and closet. Celia helps, dusting out the drawers for me and cooing at my clothes as she pets them. “You’re a real snappy dresser,” she says wistfully. “I wish Frank would give me more of an allowance. Maybe we could go to the outlet stores sometime?”
“No time like the present,” I tell her with a grin. Celia might have more leverage than I do with Mikey. “That sounds like a great idea. We could go do lunch somewhere, then drive to the outlets and spend the afternoon spending our husbands’ money.”
She claps her hands, delighted, and then whirls off to the lounge room. “We wanna go out, Mikey,” she tells him. “Can you drive us?”
Mikey, who’s on the sofa reading an old copy of a Stephen King novel, shakes his head. “No can do, Mrs. D’Amato. I’m under orders to keep Mr. D’Amato here locked down.”
“It’s Mr. Donovan,” I say. “And Mr. Donovan needs to go out or he’ll fucking explode. Va bene?”
Mikey shakes his head again. “No bene, kid. Your husband’ll have me skinned alive if I don’t follow orders.”
I tilt my head, wondering if that’s hyperbole or just the plain truth.
Celia pouts and whines, but it has no effect on Mikey. I expect he’s used to it from his own old lady. Eventually she gives up, and says she’ll go grab lunch for us to eat it. There’s a deli on the corner that does a great salad, she says.
“Sounds good, babes,” I say. “No carbs in mine, okay?”
She’s thrilled that I seem to be a fell
ow keto disciple, and to get her out the door, I have to promise we’ll have an in-depth discussion about the best cauliflower recipes when she gets back.
“I’ll get something for you, too, Mikey,” she sniffs over her shoulder. “I guess.”
I just wanted Celia out of the way for a few minutes so I could take the edge off. If she knows I’m popping, she’ll want to as well, but I saw Celia in that state during the wedding preparations, and there’s no way Mikey won’t know what’s going on. I can handle myself better, and besides, I need something. I can see that yawning black hole opening up in front of me again and I need something to bring a bit of light in.
If this is how Luca thinks I’m going to live my life, he’s got to be crazy. I can’t be shut in like this, day after day without end, not in a place that makes me want to saw my own throat open with a butter knife. It’s fucking depressing is what it is, and I can’t be here like this and not have something to make it bearable.
I go into the bathroom, which is between the lounge and the bedroom, and after slamming and locking the bathroom door, I fish out the pills from my underwear drawer. There’s a full bottle, but they’re not as potent as I’m used to when I check the label. So I shake a bunch into my mouth, and then drink them down straight from the tap in the bathroom.
I even remember to flush the toilet as an alibi before I come out again, looking innocent as the Baby Jesus. But Mikey doesn’t even look up from his novel.
Celia comes back laden with bags and plastic bowls, and we spread our feast across the coffee table in the cramped living room-slash-kitchen, and the teeny-tiny card table that I guess doubles for a dining table. There’s no place to put anything bigger. Mikey takes his baloney on whole-wheat gratefully, and makes a home on the sofa, and Celia and I shuffle the card table over nearer to the sink, to talk carb ratios. She’s really into it, and I know nothing although I pretend to. The pills kick in pretty fast, so I’m reduced to nodding and smiling. Eventually Mikey turns on the TV to catch a Judge Judy rerun, and Celia gives me a narrow-eyed stare.
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