“Damor Nev,” Sal said, hoping a change of subject would help the feeling in his gut. “Where is the man?”
“Damor—why do you ask?”
“It’s only, I rarely see you without the man lurking in your shadow. Everything is all right, I hope?”
“Damor is well,” Lilliana said, looking tense.
Sal nodded. “And your involvement with the Commission’s activities—that’s going well—is it? You’ve not asked my help for some time.”
“I have left them to Daddy, for now. Marco has been helping as well. He can garner a certain amount of influence when needed.”
Sal opened his mouth to ask just what it was Marco was doing when Lilliana headed him off.
“You were listening earlier? When I asked that you would leave me be?”
Sal nodded, that feeling in his stomach still churning.
“I’m happy,” Lilliana said. “Marco, he makes me happy. Please, don’t try to get in the way of that.”
Sal did his best to smile. “I won’t. This was the last time. I’ll show my handsome mug only long enough to return your dress, and then you’ll not hear from me again.”
Lilliana returned the smile, and though Sal could tell it was false, the mere fact that she put in the effort, was enough to dull the pain in his chest.
III
The Betrayal
All will look upon my work and they will see what I have done, yet they will not comprehend it.
—Emperor Ashwyn, First of his Name
22
The Murder Of A Don
“Fuck!” Valla cursed. “Fucking, fuck.”
“Oh gods,” said Aurie, looking pale.
“Hold still,” Vinny said, his eyes wide. “Just let me—”
“Get the fuck off me,” Valla snarled.
“Quiet, all of you,” Sal said. “Valla, stop resisting and sit bloody still. The more you flail around, the worse it’s going to bleed. Vinny get some clean cloth on there an put some pressure on it. Then we need to get her up, and we need to get out of here.”
“Fuck that! The girl can take me back,” Valla said. She winced, blood seeping between her fingers. “You need to fix this bloody mess. Besides, the big man won’t be turning round. He’ll follow it through to the end.”
“Right, then, Vinny, you think you can carry her to Alzbetta’s?” Sal asked.
“I think I could handle her.”
“No,” Valla said. “I’ll walk. You’re going to—”
“Aurie, they’re going to need a good set of eyes. With Valla in his arms, it’s going to be up to you to keep anyone out of Vinny’s way.”
Aurie nodded, biting her bottom lip, a look of determination in her eyes. Without a word, she scrambled up the nearest wall, fast as a night terror.
Vinny scooped Valla up as though she were a newborn infant.
Gentle as he was, she still winced with visible pain.
“Look, I don’t give a flying fuck what happens to that D’Angelo bastard,” Valla said. “But you make damn sure the big man makes it out all right.”
Sal nodded. “Be careful.”
At that, Vinny moved off, Valla in arms.
Sal slid his pigsticker into his boot sheath, only then realizing he’d still held it. The blood on the blade made his stomach turn. His hands were sticky with blood from fingertips to wrists. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and took a deep breath.
They’d expected this, hadn’t they? After they’d gotten to Garibaldi, Don Scarvini was practically guaranteed to tighten up security.
Still, it had been their sloppiness—Sal’s own sloppiness, that had gotten Valla hurt. Vinny had planned the timings. As the scout, it had been his responsibility to map the patterns and timings of the armed men within the Scarvini estate. Whether due to lack of discipline or by some act of genius stratagem, the movements and posts of the Scarvini men had been nearly impossible to predict.
But no matter the excuse, it was Sal’s own lack of preparation which had turned the point of entry into a point of contention. Dominik and Odie were working as sweepers. They’d taken the long routes. Each had gone opposite ways, playing containment as well as early infiltration. The remaining four had been the spears thrust. Vinny had been point. He’d gone first over the wall and blundered directly into two Scarvini guards patrolling the gardens.
It had been nothing short of a miracle that Vinny had made it out alive. In an attempt to save the Norsic, Valla had practically leaped onto one of the knives meant for Vinny, while the other Scarvini man had found himself outmatched by Aurie’s stickers.
Sal hadn’t thought Aurie capable of the sort of ferocity she’d unleashed upon the man. It was rather like seeing an alley cat take on a dog—and win.
Sal had done his part, putting his pigsticker hilt-deep into the back of Valla’s assailant, and helping Valla to her feet.
He only hoped Alzbetta would be able to do something about the wound. Stomach wounds could be tricky he knew, and without the intervention of an extremely skilled mender, a wound of that sort was almost always fatal.
Alone, Sal moved through the orchard along a winding stone path, doing his best to keep his sense of direction as the path twisted this way and that. He stopped short at the sound of voices.
Two men, one of them laughed.
Sal grabbed hold of the locket and felt a familiar surge of energy. He crept slowly through the foliage, grateful that it was spring, and the leaves had not fallen to the orchard floor.
In the autumn, they would have crunched beneath his boots, but in spring, the leafy fruit trees provided excellent cover, so long as Sal moved slow and stuck to the shadows.
As he moved closer, the voices grew louder, more distinct. They laughed once more, and there was a muffled rustling, and then a pattering sound. One of the men sighed in relief while the other only laughed louder.
“Boss has his small cloth all up in a bunch, don’t he?”
“Can you blame him? The man had three sons two moons past, but now he’s down to one runt.”
“Don’t go underestimating Giovani, the boy might be young, but he’s no runt. More of the boss in that one than both his brothers put together.”
Sal finally caught a glimpse of the men as he rounded a line of peach trees. He could see them by the light of the Lady White, their breeches about their ankles, each of the men with a tankard in one hand and their manhood in the other, pissing into a row of apple trees.
Sal slipped past, making for the cover of some berry bushes across the way.
At the orchard’s edge, the tree-line came to an abrupt end, and between the orchard and the estate house, a grass lawn. Unthreatening as it was, there was little to nowhere to hide. Sal would be forced to run across the lawn, out in the open where anyone could spot him, unless—
Sal reached for the locket with one hand still sticky with blood and the residue of skeev.
A surge of energy coursed through him—it was now or never. Sal focused his will and in a blink, bolted across the lawn. He tucked the locket back into his collar and slipped into the shadow of the cinderblock wall. With his back to the estate, he crept sidelong until he reached the backdoor. The rusted iron ring resisted his turn, the hinges creaking in protest as the door slowly opened.
“Who the—the fuck you doing?”
Sal’s heart jumped into his throat.
Two Scarvini men stood before him, big ugly thugs the pair of them standing sentry on either side of the hall.
Sal cursed inwardly and decided to roll the bones. “Thank the Lady,” he said. “I was looking—”
“Who the fuck are you?” asked the bigger thug.
Big as they were both men froze for an instant as Sal approached, palms up to show he meant no harm. The larger man bore a cudgel, a wicked iron spike driven through the end. The smaller man had a familiar Scarvini look about him, perhaps a relation to the don. He held a long knife in one hand. The other was wrapped with a chain.
“Oy, what business got you?”
“Got—me?” Sal said with mock confusion. “Only hopes of peace, my brothers.”
The two men shared another look.
“Another step closer,” said the skinny one, “and I’ll gut you like a bonefish.”
Sal stopped and put his hand in the air, his open palms facing the Scarvini men.
“What you mean peace?” said the fat one. “What’s that mean?”
“It means your boss will want to talk to me,” Sal said. “I have an offer that he won’t be able to refuse.”
“Boss ain’t here,” said the skinny one.
“How’d you get in here?” the fat one asked, clearing his throat. “Light’s body are you anyhow, boy?”
“I’m here to see the don,” Sal said, ignoring the questions put to him by the fat one. “I want to speak with Giotto. He’s the one my offer concerns.”
The two men shared another look. Clearly put off by Sal’s behavior.
“I don’t think you want to be seeing the boss man right now,” the skinny one said, pointing his long knife at Sal’s chest. “Not seeing nobody right now, he isn’t.”
“And I thought you’d said he wasn’t here?” Sal asked.
“I did, but that’s because that’s what we’re supposed to tell anyone comes—”
“Shut your bloody yap,” said the fat one. “Now, you never answered the question, boy. Who are you, and how the fuck’d you get in here?”
“Ah, well, my name is Salvatori Ewan, heir to the house of Ewan. Only, this day, I serve as a messenger of sorts. As to how I got in, why I came in through the front gate. How else?”
The fat one scowled, but the answer seemed to appease his companion.
“Messenger, you say?” the skinny one asked. “What might your message be?”
Sal smiled. “I’ve come to speak with Giotto; my message is for him and him alone.”
“Right,” said the fat one, turning the cudgel in his hands menacingly, “And suppose we don’t think Giotto wants to see you? Might be best you just left your message with us, and we can tell Giotto you was here.”
Sal shook his head. “That won’t do. I’ve express orders to tell the don myself.”
“The boss man ain’t seeing nobody right now,” said the fat one. “Even if you was Sacrull himself, there ain’t no way you’re going up to him.”
“This is a message he will want to hea —a message from the Commission. You can escort me up to Don Scarvini now, or you can step aside, and I can go alone. It’s your choice.”
Shoulders slumping, the skinny one nodded obediently, but his companion’s scowl deepened, eyes narrowed, his stance remained aggressive.
“So, what business do you have with Giotto?” the fat one asked again. “What’s the message?”
Sal chuckled light-heartedly. “Alas, I feel we could talk in circles until the sun breaks the horizon, but I fear I am in somewhat of a hurry. Might you gentlemen be good enough just to escort me to Giotto, and we can skip all the chest-beating?”
“I know you,” said the skinny one. “You was at the Pit, wasn’t you?”
The fat one grabbed Sal by the wrist. For a fat man, he was surprisingly quick. With a tug that threatened to pull Sal’s shoulder from the socket, the fat man rolled his wrist and forced Sal to turn around. The man pinned his wrist to the small of Sal’s back and pressed him up against the wall. Something crunched near his pelvis, the cap of skeev in his jacket pocket, no doubt.
The fat man’s beard brushed against Sal’s ear. His breath warm on Sal’s cheek, smelling of onions and sweet-rot.
“I asked what business you got with Giotto. Now out with it. What’s this message?”
“Peace,” Sal said through gritted teeth, his arm throbbing in pain. “An offer of peace.”
The man pressed harder, Sal’s face scraping against the rough stone wall.
“And what’s that supposed to mean, peace? The fuck are you anyhow?”
“Salvatori Ewan,” Sal said, doing his best to keep his tone placid, though, that grew increasingly difficult through the pain. “I’ve an offering of peace for Don Giotto Scarvini.”
“I ought to put this spike through your skull, boy. Answer the bloody question, or you won’t have the time to wish you had. What’s this message of yours?”
“I told you, I was sent to speak with Giotto. If you detain me much longer, I’m afraid you will come to regret it.”
“Oh,” said the fat one. “And why is that?”
“My message comes from the same man who killed Giuseppe and Garibaldi, a message I very much doubt Giotto would care to be denied.”
“Light’s name,” cursed the skinny one, looking at his companion with wide eyes. “Tam, I think we ought to—”
“The bloody man what killed Giuseppe is a dead man,” said the fat one. “Don’t much matter what the bastard has to say about it. Far as I can tell, you’re a dead man now too.”
“But, Tam, this one—”
“I tell you again to shut your yap, it’ll be you what gets the spike,” the fat one said, raising his cudgel threateningly and jamming Sal’s wrist farther up his back.
Sal cried out, the pain in his shoulder growing unbearable. If the man didn’t release him soon, he would need to act. But acting now might ruin everything.
“Oy, I ain’t gonna take this from a nobody like you,” said the skinny one, his face red with anger. “What gives you the right to give orders.”
“I get my right on account of you having night-soil where other men put their brains,” said the fat one. “If you wasn’t the don’s own kin, they’d have put you out for what you done.”
“I warn you, Tam, insult my honor again, and I’ll put this sticker through your eye.”
“How’s a man without honor feel his honors been insulted?” said the fat one.
“Gentlemen, please, let’s not bicker amongst ourselves,” Sal said genially. “It would be to the benefit of us all if we simply went to Giotto and settled this with the man himself.”
The fat man’s grip tightened once more, and Sal thought his shoulder might pop right out of the socket.
“Look,” Sal said, the pitch of his voice revealing the pain he so desperately tried to hide, “Torvald, wasn’t it? You know me from the Pit, yeah? Well, Don Scarvini will want to see me. He’ll want to know what I can tell him of his sons’ deaths. Is that really something you would deny him?”
“He’s right,” said the skinny one. “My uncle will want to know what happened to my cousins.”
“And that’s the half of what scares me,” said the fat one. “I done seen that addled brain of yours do worse with good intentions than most men could do with bad ones. You’ve a gift, Tor, but it could be you’ve a curse.”
“I warned you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the fat one sighed and released some of his pressure from Sal, “Yeah, you did, and might be you’re right. Just this one time. Might be the boss will want to hear the news about his boys. But, I don’t think he’ll care much for peace terms from the likes of this one. I reckon the boss will give leave for a bit of fun with him once he’s told what he knows.”
The skinny one seemed only partially placated by his companion’s diatribe, but he lowered his weapon, regardless.
“Go on and search him for any weapons while I’ve got him here,” said the fat one. “Then, we’ll take him up.”
The skinny one agreed and began to check Sal for weapons. He started with Sal’s boots, pulling the pigsticker from the boot sheath right off and tucking it in his belt. The man proceeded to work his way up, patting Sal’s clothing and checking his pockets. When the skinny one reached the locket, he held it up for his companion to see.
“Let him keep his jewelry,” said the fat one. “Weapons is what worries me.”
The skinny man reached into Sal’s jacket pocket and then the
other. He stopped suddenly, his hand still in Sal’s pocket.
“What’s this then?” said the skinny one, holding a handful of golden-brown power just before Sal’s nose. “Skeever, are you?”
The Scarvini man turned his hand over, letting the golden-brown powder fall to the floor.
“Skeever?” said the fat one. “Bloody skeever are you? How’s it I’m supposed to trust anything you say is true?”
“How do you trust what any man says is true?” Sal asked.
“I’m thinking we might be best to throw this one in the Black Bay and be done with it,” said the fat one.
“No,” the skinny one said. “He claims he knows something about my cousins. We have to hear him out. If he knows something important, we can take it to the boss.”
“Would you mind terribly releasing your hold on my arm?” Sal said. “I fear if you remove it, I’ll have a damnable time growing a new one.”
The fat man twisted harder on Sal’s wrist. Though by that point, Sal’s arm had grown so numb he could hardly feel the pain.
“What do you say then, Tor, get what we can from him ourselves, and then throw him in the bay?”
The skinny one made a show of thinking about what to do with Sal.
“No,” he said after a time. “The boss would want to know where we got the information from. I say we take him up.”
The fat one chuckled low, and Sal got another good whiff of onions.
“Right, then,” Sal said. “To Giotto, we go.”
“Shut your bloody yap,” the fat one said, but he released his grip on Sal’s wrist all the same, and opened the door. “Get inside.”
The skinny one led the way, Sal’s pigsticker visibly tucked in his belt, while the fat one followed behind. They were made men, big, mean, and ugly, yet it seemed to Sal that they had less sense than a pile of horse dung shared between them.
They entered into a grand foyer, pink marble floor, and white marble pillars, elaborately weaved carpets hung about the walls, and men filled the furniture. Sal counted fifteen men strewn about. If Dominik or the big man had already gotten in, they’d clearly taken a different route.
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