“Is it?”
I don’t know what’s got into me, this strange anger.
“It is,” Finch says simply, and lifts up the focaccia to take a huge bite out of it. Like filling his mouth will end the conversation.
Actually, his wordshavetamed whatever beast was rousing inside me. I inherited my position as head of the Morelli Family, while Finch inherited the billions of our previous Don. I don’t care about the money, or not as much as Finch does. Money is easy enough to make in my business, and as head of the Family, I’ll make more than most. And I get to decide how that money is dispersed among our ranks. We might have been thinned out recently, but I see that as an opportunity. We can pick and choose our recruits, and fewer family members means more money to go around. Money buys many things, including a certain amount of loyalty.
But notmyloyalty, because mine can’t be bought. So, no. I don’t care about the money.
I care about respect.
Finch argues with me often, and I love that about him, but sometimes something ugly and childish rises up inside me and questions his motives. I remind myself: this is Tino Morelli’s natural child, and more importantly,my husband. If there’s anyone in the world who should be able to talk back to the Morelli Family Boss, it’s this guy sitting in front of me stuffing his face with creamy buffalo mozzarella.
“Let the kid see his sister,” I say at last. “But you tell him he’s not getting the baby, and if he tells anyone on earth,especiallyhis parents, I will personally cut out his tongue. That baby isn’t leaving our Family, and this Hudson needs to respect my decision. Or else we’ll have a problem.”
Finch slaps his hands on the table and pushes himself up. He comes around to give me a milky mozzarella kiss, pressing his wet lips to mine, and then to my forehead. “Thank you, baby. You want your tiramisu?”
“I want your ass. But yes, tiramisu, too.”
The tiramisu is almost too rich for me, or else it’s the idea of what I still have to tell Finch, because my stomach is uneasy. I listen to him bitching about some priest for a while, his dark warnings that Celia needs to stop going to that church because the priest has too much sway over her, but my mind is on other things.
“Baby bird,” I break in at last, “I’m really sorry that Celia has friends other than you, but I think you might be overreacting just a touch.”
“He’s a fucking Donovan plant!” Coffee-cream flies from his spoon as he waves it around. “Mark my words,” he adds ominously.
“What do you mean?” I ask sharply.
Finch looks like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Nothing, I guess. I mean, his uncle was my old bodyguard. Jim O’Leary? The one who…”
“The one who gave you up to me.”
“Well. Yeah. Although Priest Boy said his side of the family cut ties a long time ago with Jim.”
“I don’t want you or Celia going to that church anymore,” I tell him.
Finch splats his spoon back into his dessert a few times, pensive.
“Did you think there would be a different outcome?” I ask at last. “I don’t know why Celia’s going to an Irish church, anyway. Tell her to find a nice Italian community around here. Remind her that we stick to our own.”
Finch sucks on his lower lip for a moment and then shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s gonna fly with Cee.”
“Well, that’s too bad. She’ll have to fall in line.”
Finch gives me a sad look. “Luca, come on. She’ll hate me if she thinks I got her banned from that place. She really likes it there. She really likes Priest Boy,” he adds, like he’s eaten something bitter in among the cream.
“I thought you said hewasn’ta priest?” Finch just shrugs and splats his spoon again. “Alright. I’ll have Angelo run background on him. But until then, you and Cee can take walks in Central Park on Friday afternoons instead.”
“I’m telling you, Cee won’t—”
“Finch.”
I don’t shout, don’t even raise my voice, but he hears my tone. He stops mid-rant, mouth open, and then shuts it with a snap. His eyes narrow. “What is it?”
“I have to go away for a few days.”
“What? Why?”
“Business.”
