“I thought he was dead...”
“Who’s that brute with him?”
I clench my teeth to keep from reacting. But it’s true, isn’t it? Even in my own Lorenzo Benedetti tux, I can’t be mistaken for anything but what I am. A brute. A monster.
A fucking animal.
I keep my hand on the Clemenza’s lower back. Guiding. Warning. He walks beside me with that same carriage Lorenzo Benedetti commented on, every inch the blue blood he was raised to be. And the vultures circle.
Salvatore Rossi, head of the Rossi Family, is the first to come over, accompanied by his wife and grandkids, all about the same age as the Clemenza—and they know him. Ask politely how he’s keeping, as if they don’t all know.
The little prince lies perfectly. “I’ve made a powerful and generous friend,” he tells them. “Damiano has been very kind.”
A public endorsement from the Clemenza, offered to important witnesses. And he says it warmly enough that anyone listening would believe it.
I should be pleased.
Instead, I feel the leash slipping through my fingers.
Then we run the gauntlet of the Alessi Boss, andhiswife and grandkids. Big Gee gives me a nod of approval nearby. Seb’s with him. I hoped he wouldn’t be, since we didn’t leave things great last time we met up, and then I leaned too heavy on those Red Hook fuckers.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I turn my back on him before he can. Luca D’Amato and the designer dick-sleeve he calls his husband are talking with their flunkies across the room.
The Clemenza’s expression changes the instant he follows my gaze and spots the Morelli Don. I know that look. Seen it in the mirror enough times. It’s the face of a man haunted by the ghost of a murder.
Of course—D’Amato killed old Lou Clemenza. I actually forgot about that, I’ve been so focused on my own shit with Big Gee. My hand goes to the Clemenza’s arm, wraps around it, and for a second I consider steering him straight over to the Morelli corner.
Nowthatwould hurt him. Making him smile and play nice with his grandfather’s murderer. Making him shake the hand that pulled the trigger.
Fuck.
I pull him in the opposite direction before I think too hard about why. He tenses but doesn’t break stride, doesn’t give those assholes the satisfaction of seeing any weakness.
I’m almost proud of him.
Our box is stuffed full of red velvet and gold filigree that reminds me of the cage I took off him earlier. An elderly couple occupies the box beside ours, the woman dripping in old-fashioned pearls, the man in evening wear that’s probably seen a score of opera seasons. The moment they spot the Clemenza coming into the box, the woman gasps audibly.
“Caligula Clemenza! My heavens, child, I haven’t seen you since that party at the Pierre. How are you?”
“Mrs. DuPont,” the Clemenza replies with charm, his smile warm and genuine. “You look radiant tonight.”
They keeping chattering together, and the way he slides back into this world like he never left it only makes things worse. I’m the one who told him to act like a free man tonight. He’s only doing what I told him. But he’s soeasywith all of it, belongs in a way I never will. These people arehispeople. This world was built for someone exactly like him.
And me? To these folks, I’m new money with a gun collection, and that’s all I’ll ever be.
“Sit,” I growl.
He does as I command, settling into the seat without so much as glancing my way, lavishing all his attention on the old biddy in the next box.
ButIwant his attention. His focus. His submission.
Mrs. DuPont, whoever the fuck she is, continues chattering about mutual acquaintances, charity boards, summer in the Hamptons. The Clemenza says all the right things back, mentioning people I’ve never heard of.
The lights dim. The orchestra begins to swell. Caligula Clemenza and his new best friend whisper their last whispers. He shifts to face the stage.
And I reach over, slow and deliberate.
My hand finds his thigh first, palm flat against the expensive fabric that’s just as soft as I remember. He goes rigid. My fingers find his fly, working the buttons free.