“Marco took it with him. You think he’s not gonna notice when you take off your ring?”
That Marco. Turns outIunderestimatedhim. And then I look down at Luca’s own left hand. “Uh, excuseyou. Where’syourwedding ring? And what the hell is this?” I grab his wrist as he tries to pull his hand away.
“I put it onovermy wedding band,” he protests, wiggling the big-ass black thing down his finger a bit to prove his claim. “It’s the Morelli Family ring. It’s been passed down between Dons. It was Tino’s, and now…”
“And now it’s yours,” I finish for him, and I kiss him, because just for a moment I’ve seen uncertainty flash through his eyes. About me? About walking into an Irish hotbed? I’m not sure. “Well, come on,” I say afterwards. “You ever been to a traditional Irish wake?”
“I have not. It sounds…loud.”
“You Italians are just as loud.” Hand in hand, we walk up to the door. There’s a placard next to it with a picture of my Pops and an announcement of the wake.The Donovan family welcomes all those who seek to celebrate Howard’s life,it says under his photo.
“I guess that’s our invite,” I say.
Luca’s eyes are watchful as he looks around our little group. “Nick, you go first. Bobby, you bring up the rear. Frank to my right and Marco, you go on Finch’s left. Watch each other’s backs. And don’t get too drunk, any of you. Keep your fucking wits about you, the few you have.”
Frank shrugs. “Let’s party,” he says.
“Let’s show our respects,” Luca corrects.
They’re both right, in their own ways.
Chapter Nine
Luca
The smell is the first thing that hits me when we go through that door. A whirling storm of wood, tobacco and weed smoke; whiskey and beer; then a more pleasant undertone of roasting meats and some kind of barbecue; plus a weird overlaying scent. Something earthy.
The house feels oddly welcoming, warm and friendly. This is a snake pit as far as Finch and I are concerned, but it sure is a well-appointed one. The front door opens into a high-roofed entryway with a marble floor and a staircase to one side. There's a side table to the left, where another picture of Howard Donovan is ringed in a floral wreath and lit by two burning pillar candles. To my right is a formal dining area which I glance into as we pass. A large teak table sits underneath the chandelier. The walls are papered in expensive looking wallpaper, and there's a huge rug that takes up almost the whole room.
Our formal dining room is nicer, I decide smugly.
But Finch is pulling me forward into the room under and beyond the overhead staircase. It's a massive area expanding the full height of the house with Kelly green paint on the walls, a green marble fireplace, another enormous rug, and a full bar to the right side of the room. The place is crowded with people talking and laughing, generally acting as though they're here to have a good time, not a sad one. No one seems to notice us as we move into the area until an enormous man with orange hair does a double take at the sight of Finch.
Instinctively, I reach for my gun. Marco has as well.
The redhead is bearing down on us, his arms going up, an enormous bellowing shout coming out of his mouth, and he barrels right through Bobby to throw his arms around Finch. Within moments, tears are streaming down his face, and he's shouting to the whole room over his shoulder: “Look who’s here, y’bastards!”
Finch, who has been totally enveloped in the man's arms, pushes him away, laughing.
“It's been awhile, Uncle Gus. How’s life treating you?” Finch turns to me, pulling me close to his side, eyes proud. “Did you hear I got married?”
“Aye, that I did. And is this the lucky bastard here?” Gus pulls me into a hug of my own.
Whatever I expected from the Donovans, I can't say it was a warm, welcoming hug.
Despite the man's booming shout, the rest of the attendees have carried on with their conversations. Gus points at my men, shouts to the general crowd: “Someone get these arseholes a drink!” and then links arms with Finch and me to lead us over to another group. They’re all male, and a large percentage of them have the same red hair prevalent in the Donovan clan.
“They told me not to expect you here, Howie,” the large man continues. “How’ve you been, and how is it your sister seems to be running the family? Just say the word and we’ll put things to rights.”
“You've been hiding away too long, Fearghus,” says one of the other men, and this one doesn't look anywhere near as friendly. “This fucker’s not welcome here.” He looks at Finch, and my hand automatically goes to my weapon again. “You hear me? You shouldn't be here,” he repeats.
“And why shouldn't he be?” Gus demands. “With his own father dead—”
“His own father died months ago,” another guy says. “This little shit is the Morelli bastard.”
I grab Finch by the elbow and pull him away with me. But by this time we’ve attracted attention, and the noise in the room is dying out as eyes turn towards us.
“Howard Donovan was as much my father as he was my sisters’,” Finch snaps. “And I was raised as his son. So you can show me some fucking respect, Cormac.”
