That morning, Sal had again been summoned to Lowers Point. Only this time, it had been different.
For one, he’d been told to dress sharp. A request rarely made when Sal was about to get his hands dirty. Next, the message of where and when had not come from Valla, or another newer made man, but from Alonzo himself—which meant this summons, unlike the others, had not come from Alonzo, but someone higher up.
And so far as Sal knew, there was only one man to whom Alonzo Amato paid homage.
The third unique aspect of the invitation was the location. Sal had not been summoned to the Underway, as he often was, but to the Black Stallion—a Moretti gambling den in the far south of the district.
The Black Stallion sat on the very tip of Lower’s Point overlooking the ocean. A three-story structure of black basalt and darkened timber. A sign, cut in the shape of a stallion, glistened with a fresh coat of black paint, as it swayed above the black double doors.
The brass door handle was cold to the touch. The sounds of revelry muffled behind the doors. As Sal turned the handle and pulled, he was struck with the full volume of the shouting, laughing, and whooping within.
He entered into a vast hall broken up only by the black support beams spanned evenly throughout. Sal passed various tables, of different sizes and shapes, some for cards, others dice. He even passed one that seemed to be played with colorful clay tiles.
Sal made for the stairs. He’d been instructed to go to the third floor, and from there onto the balcony, a great wooden platform, supported by stilts on the cliff’s very edge. Sal had seen it from afar but had never been on the balcony of the Black Stallion.
Few men had.
Unless by invitation, it was only made men of the Moretti Family that were welcome on the third floor of the Black Stallion. Sal was stopped at the top of the stairs by two familiar-looking Moretti men.
“Hold it there,” said the bigger of the two.
Sal thought his name was Danilo. The man with the whiny voice that had cracked Sal’s rib with a kick.
Danilo looked young. He had a pinched, rodent-like visage, a pair of jutting ears, and a twitchy upturned nose. All about his accouterments were touches of blue cloth. The black cross of Moretti was tattooed on his neck, just below his right ear.
Sal clenched his fist but did as Danilo instructed, halting atop the last step.
The older looking of the two Moretti men stepped up and patted Sal down. He had also been there the day Sal had been jumped in the alley, but Sal couldn’t recall his name, as he’d been far gentler than Danilo, and hadn’t earned Sal’s ire the way that Danilo had.
The older made man had a thick stubbled jaw, and streaks of gray in his black hair. “That’s a fine cloak there.”
“You should have seen the last one,” Sal said with a wink, a pang of guilt striking at the thought of the black sable cloak that had been gifted to him by Lilliana—the cloak he’d pawned to Nabu.
The made man with the thick stubbled jaw nodded to his companion, Danilo, and the pair of them moved aside. Yet Danilo’s narrowed eyes followed Sal as he passed. He could feel them all the way across the suite and out the balcony doors.
The balcony view was something to behold. The navy blue of the great waters spanned endlessly, before vanishing from view beyond a horizon of white clouds and blue sky.
“Salvatori,” called Alonzo, jarring Sal from his thoughts.
Only a few of the tables on the balcony were occupied. Sal recognized a few of the faces. Higher-ups within the Moretti Family. For the most part, they sat two to four at a table. Don Moretti and Alonzo sat together.
Sal joined them, his heart jumping into his throat as he stood across from two of the most powerful men within the Moretti Family, awaiting their instruction.
“Salvatori Lorenzo,” Alonzo said, as he linked his fingers behind his head and kicked back in his chair. “What a pleasure it is to again bask in the radiant temperateness of your vast superiority within the bounds of mediocrity.”
Don Moretti merely frowned and grunted, as he gave Sal a tight nod, the chins of his round jaw tucked, his eyes half-lidded.
“My good man, do have a seat.” Alonzo smirked in a way that showed off his overly white teeth. “Can you not see how famished we are? Soon to slip from the cloth upon our persons as we silently fall into the grips of starvation. Furthermore, with this bountiful spread of veritable delicatessens, inaccessible to the gullet, yet so close at hand—it serves only to make one step upon the very precipice of madness—let me assure you.”
Sal sat promptly and apologized for his tardiness.
“You’re here now,” said Don Moretti, snorting before he spat, jowls wriggling. He cleared his throat and gestured with his short arm and short stubby fingers. “My table is your table,” said Don Moretti. “No reason to waste any more time with blather.”
For once, Alonzo Amato had not exaggerated. The spread before them truly was bountiful, especially for so small a table. Crammed end to end with platters, plates, bowls, and trays piled high with a vast array of seafood.
A clutch of eels laid lengthwise upon a silver tray, three in all, their ghastly mouths opened wide to show a row of razor-sharp teeth, their empty eye sockets staring sightlessly into the void. Rust red lobsters, carapaces split down the back of their thick tails and pried open, stuffed with butter, garlic, and some green herbs. A long loaf of steaming bread, the golden-brown crust cracked to show a spongy white flesh beneath. He saw blackened perch, done whole, elegantly arranged upon a bed of sliced vegetables.
There was pike, catfish, and a white fish Sal didn’t recognize. Curled purple octopus tentacles, floated in a brown broth with what looked to be green onions and leeks. A thick, creamy white chowder, flecked with black pepper and yellow corn. Crawfish, breaded and fried in oil. Shrimp tails, descaled and hooked about the lip of a bowl which contained a soup of red broth. Scallops, oysters, and even half a stingray, prepared in the Miniian fashion.
A serving-man placed an empty plate and a glass before Sal.
He flinched as the serving-man laid a white cloth napkin across his lap, and filled the glass with white wine before moving off.
Sal hardly had an appetite amid the anticipation of what was to come, but it seemed neither Alonzo nor Don Moretti was half so concerned with Sal as they were the food before them. Sal thought it best to put aside his worries for the moment and try to enjoy the meal. He started with a cakey yellow sweetbread that was buttered and drizzled in honey. Next, he reached for a crab leg, cracked it between his hands, and forked out the rich, tender meat.
Don Moretti plucked up one of the oysters from where it soaked in a half-shell beneath a pool of melted butter. Moretti slurped noisily, while Alonzo picked delicately at a silver bonefish that had been cooked with the tail, head, eyeballs, and all.
Despite the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, Sal enjoyed the food. The eel was savory, the perch wonderfully flakey, and the lobster rich enough to stuff him full to bursting.
Don Moretti cracked a crab leg with the butt of his knife, sending bits of carapace about the table. When he’d slurped the stringy white meat down his gullet, Don Moretti savagely wiped his mouth and sagging jowls and dropped the cloth napkin on his plate.
As though on cue, Alonzo pushed his plate away.
Sal thought it would be best to do the same, and so he followed suit. He used his cloth napkin to wipe his hands and mouth, then dropped it on his plate as Moretti had done.
Don Moretti met Sal’s eyes. The skin beneath them drooped, which, along with his round face, sagging jowls, and plump build, gave the man a somewhat soft look. Yet, there was nothing soft about the don’s eyes. Sharp as an assassin’s knives. Eyes that demanded, and took nothing less than the very best.
Don Moretti cleared his throat. “Your uncle, he ever tell you our mutual history?”
Sal shook his head stupidly, caught entirely off-guard by the question.
“Surely, he has shown you
the scar, has he not?”
“I’m sorry, what scar would that be?”
“The scar of a traitor,” said Moretti, the easy-going cadence of reminiscence slipping from his tone. “The scar on his chest where Stefano Lorenzo had the black cross of Moretti cut free of his flesh.”
“My uncle was a made man in the Moretti Family?” Sal asked, genuinely astonished. It was a piece of history his uncle had apparently not felt worth sharing.
“Stefano was not merely made. He was my second hand.”
“What happened?” Sal asked. “Between you and Stefano.”
Moretti shrugged his round shoulders. “The same thing that always happens. A story old as time; the avarice of the protégé outpaced the failing of his master’s heath. Stefano grew impatient, and he left my service for the promise of greater appreciation among the ranks of another master.”
“Don Svoboda,” Sal murmured.
Don Moretti snorted long and loud then spat to the planks of the balcony. “You’ve much of his aggrandized self-worth—though you tamper it well—I can see it there, lurking behind your eyes. You’re much like him.”
Sal bit his lip. I’m nothing like him, he wanted to scream, but wisely kept his thoughts where they belonged, tightly bottled within his mind.
Don Moretti opened his hands, palms up. “Of late, there have been some unfortunate events. It seems I find myself short of quota—so far as good men are concerned.”
Sal waited with bated breath.
Alonzo was looking at him. Much like his don, Alonzo had sharp eyes, yet there was something much more unsettling about Alonzo’s eyes. The way they seemed to look through a man—seemed to look into his mind and know more about him than the man knew himself.
“Alonzo has named you,” Don Moretti said.
Sal’s heart hammered in his chest. He—Salvatori Lorenzo—had been named? It was something he had once wanted so badly—back before he’d learned to despise the very idea. Yet, now that the moment was upon him, Sal didn’t know how he felt.
He could sense their eyes on him, but Sal’s mind was a tempest of contradicting thoughts and feelings.
“He—I—what do I do now?” Sal asked.
“If you accept, you get a chance to make your blood,” Alonzo said. “You do that—you’re in—you’re officially made.”
The words rang in his mind—officially made. It struck him over and over, like the toll of a bell. Five times the words tolled—one for the Light, two for the Dark, three to gather, four to fight, and five—
18
Another Context
INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Bartley had introduced Sal to the place some time back, a little inn not far off South Market. The Hog Snout, it was called—a typical Low Town wine-sink—yet the service was somewhat exceptional, and singers frequented the taproom. Best of all, the rushes always smelled of meadowsweet, a smell that reminded Sal of his mother.
It was Vinny’s first time, and he seemed unimpressed by the atmosphere. Perhaps it was the ale which tasted a touch flat, or the tabletop that was sticky from years of spilled drinks, the singer that sang a note off-key, or the serving wench with the wandering eye that kept looking Vinny’s way with her good eye. Whatever the case, it seemed Vinny wanted out.
“Oh, look, mate. I think she’s coming back over,” Sal said, smirking at Bartley as the half-Norsic kid as he hid his face behind his ale.
“Not again,” Vinny groaned. “She’s relentless, this one is.”
Bartley laughed, and waved the serving wench over-enthusiastically, clearly reveling in every moment of Vinny’s discomfort.
“Gentlemen, how are we this evening?” asked the serving wench as though she’d not asked that very question a turn past.
Sal and Bartley shared a look, as the wench fixed Vinny with her good eye and winked.
“Cooky went and fixed up a leg of lamb on the spit. Does it with a touch of mint, honey and black pepper, you’ve really not lived until you’ve had a taste.”
“I’ll stick to the ale.” Vinny held up his clay mug.
Sal shook his head and made a deferential gesture with his hands.
“I’ll have a taste,” said the little Yahdrish, giving the wench a wink and a smile.
“Do Yahdrish eat mutton?” asked Vinny.
“Not mutton,” said Bartley, smirking. “She said lamb, you Vordin oaf.”
“Norsic,” said Vinny seriously, sitting up straight. “Not Vordin, I’m Norsic.”
“I’ll just take that lamb order into the kitchen, then,” said the serving wench, moving off.
“Vordin, Norsic,” Bartley said, wafting his hand airily. “What’s the difference? You’re all Skjörds.”
“The difference?” said Vinny incredulous. “The difference is that I’m not bloody Vordin.”
Bartley shrugged, and Vinny made a sound in his throat.
“Look, you’ve all got flowing blonde locks and skin like buttermilk,” the Yahdrish said. “How am I supposed to tell the difference?”
“I suppose you don’t know the difference between a Pairgu and a bloody Yahdrish neither?”
“That would be difficult in my case,” said Bartley. “But telling the difference between a Norsic and a Vordin is like telling the difference between a frog and a toad.”
Vinny’s face twisted into an expression of pure incredulity. “You don’t know the difference between a frog and a bloody toad?”
Bartley fixed him with half-lidded eyes, his lips pursed. “I know the difference. Toads will give you warts, and frogs are good in soup. But I’m talking about the look of them. No one can tell just by looking at them.”
Vinny opened his mouth to say something when the serving wench returned with his ale and Bartley’s plate of lamb.
As the little Yahdrish dug into his lamb, Vinny took a long swig, and Sal watched on with eager anticipation of just how Vinny was going to explain the difference between Vordin and Norsic.
“Look, my mother was Pairgu,” said Vinny. “I was born in Dijvois. So, I know as much about the difference between Vordin and Norsic as the next man. But surely you know Vordin and Norsic come from entirely separate parts of Skjörund, don’t you? I mean, Vordin and Norsic have about as much in common as a goat and a sheep.”
“Right, exactly,” said Bartley, “just like frogs and toads. Nobody can tell the difference by looking at them. Not until you start eating the bloody—”
“What in Sacrulls—” Vinny looked ready to explode. He sighed and took a drink of his ale, and Bartley went back to his lamb, entirely ignorant of the problem.
“Something that I’ve been meaning to address,” Bartley said through a mouthful of lamb. “As founder of the Shadow Guild, I will obviously take the role of don. But I am worried about the lack of roles available. If I’m don and Sal is underboss, that doesn’t leave much room for a third head at the top, does it?”
Vinny narrowed his gaze at the little Yahdrish, as though attempting to follow the threads of where Bartley was leading them.
“Well, if the underboss is the don’s right hand, that leaves an open left hand,” Sal said. “Should it ever come down to it, I’d be willing to step aside and allow Vinny the role of the right hand. I will better serve the crew as a left hand anyhow. I’m more fit to be an advisor to leaders than I am to lead.”
Vinny laughed. “I’ll tell you what. For the time being, we can just consider me in charge of this little crew. And if it ever comes time that we need to name one of our number for Don, we can talk about it then.”
Bartley looked aghast. “Look, this was settled already, long before you were anything but a thorn in the side of this crew. The Shadow Guild will be top of the Commission. And when that time comes, just as now, I’ll be running this crew.”
“Does it really matter who thinks they’re in charge?” Sal asked. “Now look, we came here to plan a job. I say we focus on the task at hand, and the rest will work itself out.”
; “I think it’s clear someone thinks he’s already in charge here,” said Vinny.
Sal sighed. “I really don’t think I could be more clear about this. I don’t give a flying fish who wants to be in charge, just as long as we are doing things right.”
“Oh, sure,” said Bartley. “It’s not like you’ve been trying to take the lead since the beginning.”
“No one needs to be in charge of anything.” Sal had grown truly exasperated by the subject. “This crew is three people. Everyone can be in charge of themselves, so long as they’re acting in a way that’s right for the group, yeah?”
Vinny nodded. “Suppose that works for me.”
Bartley shrugged. “Yeah, all right. But only so long as you both understand, anyone else joins the Shadow Guild they defer to me as leader.”
Sal and Vinny laughed as they shared a look.
Despite their recent past, Vinny had become a fast friend. He’d meshed well with their little trio, easy to laugh, and never afraid to poke fun. Best of all, he was never sore to be the butt of a jape. Vinny filled the role of bruiser, a position their crew had sorely lacked in the past, and one that would have ironically served well when they had been targeted by Vinny himself.
“I mean it,” Bartley said. “Anyone new is to refer to me as Don Bartley.”
“Fair enough,” Sal agreed, grinning broadly.
Vinny only shrugged, lips pursed.
Sal was glad to have that behind them. Though he suspected it was bound to come back up in the near future, probably the next time they went out for drinks, Bartley would already have forgotten what they’d discussed. No doubt, he would insist they referred to him as the leader of the trio, and their little crew as the Shadow Guild.
The Man in Shadow Page 17