They cut to the live reporter on the street outside the townhouse, but I look past her to a silhouette in the background. Massive. Unmistakable.
The Giuliano.
He turns quickly to avoid the camera, but a flash of blue from the police lights catches his face. It’s him. For sure.
Why washethere? Was he working with the guy who chased me out of the townhouse, the one I assume killed Louie? But if so, why the hell would he go back to the scene of the crime?
I sink onto the edge of the bed, legs unsteady as my adrenaline crashes. It’s not the memory of dark, voracious eyes, the phantom pressure of hands on my chest, at the back of my neck, the way I responded to being pinned down like a?—
Maybe I need another shower. A cold one.
To shock some sense into me.
The bruises from the Giuliano develop during the night, so the next morning I’m greeted with indelible fingerprints on my arms that make me feel grubby even after I shower. My clothes, which I washed last night as well as I could in the bathroom sink, are stiff but dry, and the blood doesn’t show on my sweater. Good enough.
Today I’ll approach one of the last potential allies I have left. Tony Stuccio was my father’s oldest friend and the Family lawyer. After the Clemenzas disintegrated, the Feds stuck to “Uncle Tony” like glue. I couldn’t tell whether he wascooperating or not, and the cost of making a mistake was too great. Now the cost of staying on the streets is much greater. After Louie’s death, there’s no more pretending.
I’m next.
Louie was careful. Tough as hell. He made his bones at seventeen and he was deeply embedded in the business. If they got him, they can definitely get me.
I check carefully before I slip out of the hotel, but there’s no sign of the Giuliano, or anyone else who seems interested in my movements. When I arrive at the Midtown block that houses Stuccio & Associates on the third floor of an older building, the offices have been open for a while. The receptionist, a woman with a tight face too young for her silvery hair, gives me a quick once-over, taking in my wrinkled clothes. She tells me unsmilingly to take a seat when I give my name and admit I don’t have an appointment.
But surely Uncle Tony will make time for me. He and my father went to Princeton together, were members of the same club. He taught me to fish at our lake house upstate when I was eight. On my acceptance to Princeton, he looked just as proud of me as my Dad, gave me a Montblanc pen to celebrate the occasion, told me he expected great things. A few months later, he stood beside me at my father’s funeral, his hand steady on my shoulder.
I never went to Princeton. I put it off for a year. And in that year, everything changed. My grandfather was murdered in cold blood during what was supposed to be a peace-talk dinner, and so began the inevitable fall of my Family.
I sit in the waiting area, watching men and women in expensive suits walk past. I know a few faces—people who used to smileand nod at Clemenza functions, who jockeyed for invitations to our Christmas parties. Not one of them acknowledges me now. In fact, as soon as they recognize me, they look away.
Funny how that works. When the Clemenzas were on top, everyone wanted to be seen with us. Now we’re poison. I could sit here and build a list of every single turncoat. Names, dates, betrayals. I’ve got nothing but time and nowhere else to go.
Eventually, the receptionist calls me back over to the desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clemenza, but Mr. Stuccio is not available.”
“I can wait.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clemenza,” she says again, in the exact same tone. “Mr. Stuccio will not have time to see you.”
“Then I’ll come back tomorrow. What time would suit him?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clem?—”
“You know what? I don’t think you’re sorry at all.” A flash of my grandfather’s legendary temper.
It doesn’t faze her. She gives a small sigh and a false smile. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“As I said, I’m happy to wait. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wait right over there until Mr. Stuccio has time for an old Family friend.” I put a little emphasis on those last two words.
I do just what I said, and sit in the corner of the reception area, picking up an old magazine to flick through unseeingly. When I glance back at the reception desk, the woman is talking into the phone in quick, hushed tones.
I smile to myself.
A moment later, Tony Stuccio is marching down the corridor toward me with the expression of a man being led to his own colonoscopy.
I stand. I beam. I extend my hand like we’re at a cocktail party. “Uncle Tony!” I say loudly. “You look fantastic. Have you lost weight?”
He stops short, ignoring my hand. His eyes dart around—checking for witnesses, the coward. “Cal,” he snaps in a low voice. “You can’t be here.”
I keep the smile on my face. “I understand you’re busy, Uncle Tony, and I promise I won’t take up much?—”