My nose hurts when I laugh too long, so I stop and cough instead. “Mygoals?I got everything I ever wanted already, babes. As long as I play by my Pops’ rules—”
He points a finger at me. It’s like I’m looking down the barrel of his gun instead. “I don’t think you like his rules though, do you, angel? I read up on Howie Donovan the Third. Hedidend up going to Harvard. But then he got cut.”
I grin. “Ahh, just an unfortunate series ofmisunderstandings. You know what those places are like; they don’t fuck with drugs. Or maybe you don’t know. I guess you never went to college.” I didn’t mean it as a diss, but it comes out that way.
But he shrugs it off. “Reading’s free; life is a lesson.”
I’m glad to hear that. If he’s a reader it means he’s a thinker, andthatmeans I might get out of this alive. And I find, strangely, that I do want to stay alive, now that he’s back in the picture.
“So what are you suggesting? You gonna let me go, send me back to Pops with a message?”
I don’t know if I like that idea much. Pops has been tightening the purse strings lately, and threatening rehab again, or even home detention. If I limp back to Boston with a message about how I got kidnapped and almost killed—
But my man shakes his head. “Can’t do that. I’m under strict orders to kill you. If I let you go…” He spreads his hands with a shrug.
I give a shaky smile, let out a breath. “At last.” He looks at me, head cocked to one side. “I’m glad it’s you,” I tell him. I really am, now that the time is finally here. “I’m ready to die. Just make it quick.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“Then what—”
He makes a sharp hand movement, cutting off my words. “I owe you a debt, and I honor my debts. You saved my life, so I can’t kill you.”
“Is that the only reason?” He doesn’t reply to that. “I mean, youcouldjust kill me,” my runaway mouth says, even though I don’t mean it to. “Then everything could go back to your original plan. Whatever that was.”
He looks me over, his eyes contemplative. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“I honor my debts,” he says again. “We’ll go to the Boss, I’ll tell him the score, and accept his judgement. One way or the other.”
“One way or the other,” I echo. “Seems fair. How about a kiss for old time’s sake? One last kiss before we jump into the void?” I’m shivering, and I don’t know whether it’s because I’m coming down from the drugs, or because I’m genuinely cold, or because I’m genuinely terrified.
He comes close, and runs a hand through my hair. “You still have the face of an angel,” he says. And he does lean in and brush his lips against my forehead. “Pray to Mary to intercede for us, baby bird,” he advises. “And we might get out of this alive.”
Wow, such confidence.
Chapter Eight
LUCA
Don Augustino Morelli has always given me more leeway than usual when it comes to myCaporegime, Sam Fuscone. Fuscone is small fry; Tino has always been my model for power. And I like to flatter myself that he sees me as having potential.
We all file into Tino’s dining room: me, Frank, Fuscone, and his half-wit nephew. Outside in the antechamber sits Howard Fincher Donovan the Third, another bag over his head and surrounded by men with guns. Tino Morelli sits behind the dinner table like a medieval king. We go one by one to kiss his hand and then stand in a line in front of him. We are the prisoners; he is the firing squad.
“Ah, it’s those damn D’Amato brothers,” he says, smiling at me and then at Frank. We bow our heads respectfully. “You two always seem to be getting into trouble,” Tino continues, wagging a thick finger at us. He’s old, but he still wields the mantle of power like a second skin.
“Aw, you know us, Tino,” Frank says, looking up with a grin. Frank’s lucky he’s so well-liked. He’s even charming, in his way. I’m not. But that’s alright; I have other skills.
I raise my head and look my Boss straight in the eye. “My apologies, Don Morelli. We’ve interrupted your dinner with our petty problems.”
He regards me with calm eyes. I never know quite what he’s thinking, and there aren’t many men I can say that about.
Sam Fuscone blusters then, furious thatthose damn D’Amato brothers(he’s the one who started that particular nickname) have begun to direct the conversation. If only he knew how defensive it makes him sound. “This asshole, he don’t do what he’s told, Tino. He’s always talking shit about me and—”
Tino holds up one hand, and Fuscone shuts his yap. Evenheisn’t dumb enough to keep going when the Don calls a halt. “And who is our guest waiting outside?”
“He’s that mick Donovan’s son, and I want him dead,” Fuscone snarls.
“I don’t like these slurs you throw around, Sam,” Tino chides him calmly. “We are businessmen. We don’t need to use ugly words to run our business. We are, what is the term they use these days?” He glances at me, but I stay quiet. “An equal opportunity employer,” he says at last. “Are we not?”
