I chose Finch that night, chose him over myFamiglia, my blood brothers, my Don. And I’d do it again with no regrets, because I know now that I cannot live without Finch. I only lived half a life before.
So I know, as Angelo says, that I chose right, but that choice also meant I broke my vows. When I think of that, I get a shiver of superstition, wondering if God was watching. Judging.
Still, there’s no point looking back, only forward.
I clear my throat and gesture to one of the pages. “And you think I should approach Salvatore Rossi, too?”
“The Rossis have their problems with the Clemenzas, just as we do. And they are more powerful, so they would be a useful ally. But I’m not advising on a course of action. I am merely providing information to you.Boss.”
I throw the briefs down on the little table between us. “I don’t feel like it,” I say baldly. “Like the Boss.”
Angelo nods. “And yet, you are.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small box. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to give this to you. Now it has become imperative.”
The velvet box is stiff, the hinges opening reluctantly. Inside is nestled a heavy gold ring studded with a smooth oval onyx.
I know this ring.
This is the ring I kissed at my initiation, when I bent low over the proffered hand of Don Augustino Morelli, and swore to protect him. My throat burns, and I try to press it back at Angelo.
“I’m not worthy of it,” I mutter. And that’s the truth. I feel like a kid trying to fit into his father’s shoes. I’m just as likely to fall flat on my face.
But Angelo pushes the box back into my hands. “Then you must make yourself worthy. Put it on. When the Commission members see you wearing it, it will only strengthen your position.”
I run a fingertip over the smooth, cool stone, as I consider his words, and then I push my personal feelings aside. Because this isn’t personal.
This is business.
The ring is too big for my finger, but when I slide it over the wedding ring on my left hand it sits snug and perfect. I don’t like wearing it over the gold band; I don’t want any of them to think I’m ashamed of it.
“Think of the Morelli ring as a shield,” Angelo suggests, reading my mind, “rather than a cloak.”
I stretch my fingers and curl them into a fist, letting the weight of the ring settle on my hand.
* * *
Angelo,as always, was right about the ring.
In Chicago, when we’re finally admitted into the meeting room and I’m confronted with a group of men who all stare at me like they want to kill me, I’m grateful for the way their eyes flicker when I reach up to smooth back my hair. All those eyes focus on that ring, and the atmosphere changes just slightly, from sub-zero to chilly.
There’s a long, gleaming cherrywood table stretching the length of the dark room, with a dozen or more men sitting around it. Behind each of them is a little cluster of bodyguards, so that the room feels crowded despite its size. Sam Fuscone is there, though not seated at the table, although his face goes almost the same dark red color as the tabletop when I return his stare. He might have killed Tino, but Frank and I took out his nephew on the same day. We’re not even—not by a long shot—but I’m glad he knows it wasthose damn D’Amato brotherswho took out Joey.
I assume these offices we’re meeting in are owned by the Boss of the Chicago Arm, Tony Lombardo, who’s seated at the bottom of the table, arms outstretched and palms planted on the wood. Angelo muttered to me between the car and the front doors that the building is situated opposite the site of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
So that’s cheering.
Lombardo gives me a big smile as he rises from his seat. “Luciano D’Amato, in the flesh.”
I give him a respectful bow from the doorway, where I’m still waiting to be invited in.
“Don Lombardo. I am grateful to you and the rest of the Commission for inviting me here today.”
“Come in, come in!” Lombardo comes towards me, arms outstretched, and greets me with the traditional kisses on each cheek. He takes my hand to look at the ring, tilting it this way and that in the overhead lights as though it’s an engagement diamond. “And here we have proof, eh? Proof of Tino’s wishes.” He glances at Angelo. “And more proof here, behind you.”
There’s a low growl from the direction of the Fuscone faction. Don Louis Clemenza, sitting in front of him at the table, shifts in his seat. It’s enough to silence Fuscone. Fuscone’s his close ally, but still a subordinate as far as Clemenza’s concerned.
“It’s good to see you, too, Messina,” Lombardo says to Angelo, who is just behind my right shoulder. “I’m glad you lived through that dreadful night.”
“And how did he manage to live while Don Morelli did not, eh?” asks a croaking, grumbling voice. It’s Salvatore Rossi, one of the New York Bosses that Angelo thought might be sympathetic to me. Apparently not.
