“You seem thirsty,” I said.
He drank it down without really tasting it.
“Ladies,” Calcedonio said, “if you’d wait over at the bar, the drinks will keep coming. On me. But if you don’t mind…” He made a shoo motion with his hand.
They smiled at him, and his eyes lingered on one longer than the others. He sent one of our men to keep an eye on them at the bar.
Nunzio poured another glass. He held it in his hand. “I want Michele Sorrentino.” He downed the glass.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to recall the name.
“The chef?” Calcedonio said, scratching his head. “What the fuck did he do? Give you shrimp instead of steak? I ate there last week with Adriano and Baggio, and it was off the charts.”
“He is on a date with your cousin,” he said, looking at me. “Brooklyn.”
“That’s it?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “That is it. But I do not trust him. He looks like a fucking Lothario.”
“What’s a Lothario?” Calcedonio said, sliding his hands through his hair, trying to tame the sides down.
“Not what. Who.” I slid the bottle closer to Nunzio. “Lothario is a name. It means an unscrupulous seducer of women.”
Calcedonio and I looked at each other and grinned. But that still didn’t take away from the fact that Nunzio wanted to kill a man who was not a part of this life and had done nothing wrong.
“You know the rules,” I said. “No.”
Calcedonio squeezed his shoulder. “Stay away from her. She’s a real nice girl, but her ma got burned, and she’d set you up if you even tried to get close to her daughter. That woman has the longest fucking memory in history.”
Nunzio grumbled something into his glass and then downed it.
I checked my watch. Two minutes. Even though I’d been visiting The Club often, it wasn’t my fucking scene. But I went where Macchiavello’s business took him, and Romeo suggested it for the meeting place.
The three of us stood when Romeo started to make his way toward us. The crowd parted to let him through.
He held out his hand when he was close enough. We shook and then pulled each other in. Romeo and I enjoyed each other’s company. We occasionally shared drinks and cigars and some conversation.
Calcedonio and Nunzio shook his hand. Then he leaned in closer and told me how to get to a room in the building. Second floor. He’d meet us there in a minute.
One of the guards opened the door for us before we were even there. It could only be opened from the inside, and when the door closed, it shut flush with the wall. Unless someone opened it, it didn’t exist.
We were led to a floor with less people. A more exclusive area. The music was subdued. The furniture was richer. The men sitting around smoked expensive cigars and drank fine liquor. I recognized a few famous athletes and some politicians.
The guard opened a door off a hallway, and Rocco Fausti stood at the one-way mirrored wall, looking out over the dance floor.
“Take your seats, gentlemen,” he said. “Myfratellowill be here shortly.”
We were offered cigars and an assortment of liquor that back in the day would have only been offered to dignitaries and gentlemen of substance.
I declined the drink but accepted the cigar. The three of us took seats on regal chairs at a table fit for a king. The guard delivered the cigars and the drinks Calcedonio and Nunzio had ordered. He set down a bottle ofAmaro and a chilled cup for me.
Yeah, Macchiavello was fucking with me.
I’d drink to that. I was fucking with him, too. I raised my glass and grinned.Saluti, motherfucker.Then I downed the drink.
My eyes met Rocco’s when I set the glass down. He was eyeing me through the mirror. I wasn’t looking away. We’d stare at each other until the world fucking ended.
The door opened and Tito Sala walked in, breaking the reflection into three.
