Before I took my seat, I paid my respects to another man first. Vito Spadaro, who everyone mostly called “The Boss” or “Boss.” He stood when he saw me, and we embraced. Then he slapped one of my cheeks, sitting back down.
The look on Carlo’s face was tight, but he still stood when I got close, and we repeated the same tradition. Except he didn’t slap my cheek. He sat back down and got back to his dinner.
Vito had retired to Florida, but he still sat in on dinners from time to time, depending on what was going on.
I wasn’t surprised that he was here. I wondered what took him so long.
Vito had been the head of Murder for Hire, Inc., and one of the men who pulled the bones of it out of the ashes and turned them into what it became. I might have been his surrogate son in this life, since he had no children, but the business was his son.
Blood was always thicker than water.
The waitress set a glass of red wine in front of me, and then a plate of spaghetti withbraciole. The restaurant was known for it. Either beef or pork stuffed with Italian-style breadcrumbs, cheese, and other ingredients. It was cooked in red gravy until it was tender enough to cut with a fork. The recipe had been in the Vallesefamigliafor generations.
My mamma had cooked the bestbraciole.But saying so would only start an argument. I had a thing about those. I never argued with fools, so I kept my opinion to myself.
Hands constantly moved—reaching for bread, taking a drink, spinning pasta up forks, pointing at a guy in front of them for emphasis during a conversation.
I listened while I ate.
I listened to every word that went around the table.
Important. Unimportant.
It wasn’t what was always said, but what was implied.
Out of a million words, I’d remember a million, but only a hundred or so would be worth something. Maybe even less.
I’d felt eyes on me since I’d arrived, but I decided at that moment to look up and meet the ones staring at me from across the table.
The eyes belonged to Boy Conte.
He was the head of the Conte Crew. A knockoff of Murder for Hire, Inc.
The difference between Boy and me:
Everything.
He was nothing but a thug who knew how to use a knife. He was sloppy, constantly leaving blood trails behind him. They usually led to the pipes in whatever bathroom he decided to bleed his victims out in. Blood never left pipes, no matter how much bleach was used or how many times water, hot or cold, ran through them. Blood marked the metal for life. As permanent as a stain on the soul.
Boy played with his food unnecessarily.
One of my bête noires.
Manners were another thing for me.
He had none.
I watched as he tore into a piece of hisbraciolewith his fork. He stuffed it into his mouth and then started talking to me.“Heard you’ve been having some trouble at that club of yours, Candle.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. Set it down. Then took a sip of red wine. I said nothing.
“As chirpy as always.” He grinned at me. Then he looked at The Boss, who watched us from his spot next to Carlo at the head of the table. “Never knew what you ever saw in this kid, Boss.”
“Same thing I saw in you,” he said. “Just cleaner.”
The entire table roared with laughter.
I lifted my glass insalutetoward The Boss. He lifted his in return. Our eyes met for a brief second before I turned back to Boy.
