And again, I don’t like what I’m hearing. This was supposed to be an intelligence-gathering meeting, not a reunion.
But the scarred-jaw guy presses forward off the wall. “Fuck that,” he says. “You know how I got this?” He points to his face. “From a former brother turned Alessi Family. If we ain’t here for revenge?—”
“There will be no talk of such things,” Caligula says at once.
The guy stares at him, ugly and angry. “Bad enough some queer’s running things,” he scoffs, “and now he ain’t got the stomach for what needs to be done. At least D’Amato don’t think twice about taking down his enemies.”
I’ve already raised the gun, and I only pause because Caligula grabs my other wrist. “Put the gun down, Dami,” he says. I lower it. Slowly. “If this man has such a problem with me, he’s of no use. He should leave.”
“He’ll spill things,” Ferraro growls. “Better to put him down.”
“I am not going to have my people thinking they risk their lives simply to meet with me,” Caligula says, sharpness sliding into his tone. “If he wants to go, let him go. That goes for all of you. If you don’t like the fact that I’m gay—if you don’t like the fact that I don’t plan to challenge Luca D’Amato’s leadership—then get out. Now.”
The scarred guy looks around, expecting support, but no one else says a thing. In the end, he has to shuffle out of the room alone, sending a half-regretful look back as Ferraro slams the door behind him.
“Any questions?” Caligula asks, after a beat.
They all glance at each other. They don’t know what to make of him.
Hell,Idon’t know what to make of him.
This isn’t the snakey little motherfucker I broke into pieces in the basement. But he’s not the empty husk I pulled out of it, either.
This is Louis Clemenza’s grandson, and I wonder just how much like his grandfather he really is.Andhow much he means what he’s saying. The whole time I’ve known him, the only thing that really breaks his composure—apart from getting horny—is a mention of the man who killed his grandpa. Now here he is, calling for peace with the Morellis, letting bygones be bygones.
I don’t buy it.
But the rest of them do.
“We should make our vows,” Ferraro says, looking around at them. They all nod agreement. “I got the oil here, and the bread,” he goes on eagerly, pointing at the table.
I was right. It’s for the ceremony; that must be the way they do it. The Giulianos do it different, using salt and a knife.
“Buthecan’t be here,” Ferraro goes on, pointing at me.
“Yeah,” says one of the others. “What’s a Gee doing here, anyway?”
“Like Don Morelli, Damiano Orsini has proven himself a friend of the Family,” Caligula tells them. “You will show him the respect he deserves. As for your vows, they can wait. Go home and think about whether this is what youreallywant. Once we begin this venture, there’s no going back. Some of you might not live through it. You need to be certain.”
It doesn’t seem to faze any of them, but there’s a murmur of assent, a hiss ofYes, Don Clemenza, that travels the room.
“You got the ring, though. Right?” Ferraro says, looking at Caligula’s hands, which are conspicuously bare.
“I have the ring.”
And for the first time—the very first time—I catch a lie coming off that golden tongue and recognize it for what it is.
Because hedoesn’thave the ring. He doesn’t have anything except that backpack that he arrived with, and I went through it myself the night I bought him. No ring.
But I remember it. Hard to forget. Shaped like a snake, the head decorated with a ruby like a drop of blood, and a couple of diamonds for eyes. Lou Clemenza flashed it around as much as he could.
Well, shit…
Isthatwhat the little prince was searching for in the basement? The ring that will confirm him king?
Big Mike shifts his weight. “And the other thing? You made your bones?”
The room goes quiet as they wait for Caligula’s response. Anyone who wants to join the Family, let alone lead it, has to have killed.