“I didn’t know till just this morning,” Frank tells me defensively. “Just now when I pulled up at your place. Anyway, aren’t you gonna tell me how the missus is doing?”
“Shut up, Frank,” I sigh. “And show some respect.”
He chuckles and takes another corner on two wheels. “Well, Celia’s into him. She always wanted a gay BFF, and that was never gonna be you, was it?”
We arrive at Tino’s place. He lives in a fancy-but-not-noticeable area of the city, and there are cameras all over the place—his own and the Feds’. Today there are two Morelli guards out the front, too. Things must be serious. Frank gives a grim look at me.
“It’s getting serious.”
“I can see that.”
“It was you he asked for,” he says. “I’ll wait here.”
“I don’t like you out here in the open.”
He shrugs. “No one’s interested in a foot soldier.”
I grip his shoulder. “Iam,” I tell him. “You’re not allowed to die, Frankie. Not while I need you. Understand?”
I leave him laughing.
The two guards know me; I recognize them from a different crew and give them the nod. Usually I’d go right in, but my husband’s advice about treating underlings better is sticking in my brain for some reason, so I pause. “It’s…Nick, right? And Bobby?”
I can’t quite remember which is which, but they nod, looking surprised.
“How’s it been out here?” I ask. I can’t recall if either are married or have kids, otherwise I’d ask after them. So I stick to business.
They stare dumbly at me before one of them says, “Real quiet, Mr. D’Amato, real quiet.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I say, and they nod again. I attempt a smile, but quit it when it only seems to provoke terror. “Well, Mr. Morelli is expecting me, I believe.”
Nick, or maybe Bobby, opens the door for me, and I’m greeted in the hallway by Angelo Messina, who gives me a nod before he holds out his hand.
“I’ll take the gun today,” he says calmly.
“Come on, Angelo, you know me.”
“I’ll take the gun today.”
I hand it over, and he locks it away before taking me through the house to the conservatory, where Tino likes to take his breakfast. For Tino, that means espresso and biscotti. He’s reading the papers—he gets them all, even the tabloids—and his first cigar of the day waits on a satin napkin next to his coffee. He stands up when I approach, smiling happily, and kisses me on both cheeks.
“Don Morelli, you look well.”
“My boy!” he booms. “It’s good to see you. How was theMaddalena, eh? Did she behave for you?”
I have to be careful here. Does he know about the assassin? It could be a veiled threat, or it could be a request for information, or it could be just general small talk to break the ice.
“She’s a lovely yacht,” I tell him politely. “We’re indebted to you for allowing us—”
“Please, please,” he says, waving away my niceties. “We areFamiglia. What’s mine is yours. Come, sit. You want espresso?”
I accept his hospitality, and we chat about mundane things while the house staff come and go, bringing more coffee, more biscotti. Only once they’ve gone and Angelo has retreated into a corner does Tino fold up his paper, light his cigar, and look at me closely over his half-glasses.
“I hear you had some troubles out on the ocean,” he says in a low voice.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, sir.”
He leans forward in his chair. “Oh, I have no doubt of that, Luciano. I heard from Nunzio that one of the new hires didn’t work out so well.”
