And I’m right.
Vicario was only honoring his old friend’s wishes when he backed Luca, but the first chance he had to break away, he took it. Not sticking around for an initiation? All because your queer Irish husband’s father died? Not gonna cut it with the old men of honor from Sicily, no sir.
So now the extant Morelli Family has been expelled from the Commission, from any dealings with allies of the Commission members, and any man aligning himself with the Morellis will be fair game. No need to ask for permission to take out a hit, even on made men; no need to ask permission to move in on Morelli turf.
Meanwhile, at Clemenza’s insistence, Sam Fuscone has been initiated as head of the newly-recognized Fuscone Family, and given a seat at the Commission table.
“This is my fault,” I say, after I digest the news.
“No. Vicario gave me an ultimatum, and I don’t do ultimatums. I made my choice freely, angel. You’ll always come before the Family for me. In that sense, Vicario was right to ostracize me. I didn’t intend to keep the vows I made to them and I made that very clear. Oath breakers aren’t welcome in the organization. So we’ll strike out and make new friends, new allies. There are others in this city outside us Italians.”
I put my head in my hands. “You of all people, acting like an optimist? We reallyarefucked. I should’ve stayed away from Boston like you told me.”
“We arenotfucked. And I don’t want you thinking any of this is your fault. If it hadn’t been this, they would have found some other reason to get rid of us down the track.”
I glare up at him. “I just made it real easy for them.”
Luca gives a shrug. “What’s done is done. Forget it. How was your day? Have you talked to Cee?”
It’s an ostentatious change of subject, but I let it happen. I can’t find a solution to the problem I’ve made right now, but I’ll think on it.
I’ll think on it and I’ll find a way to help.
* * *
I don’t havemuch to dobutthink over the next few days. My father is buried on Wednesday morning, and Tara sends me some texts throughout the day, letting me know what’s happening. It helps, sort of. On Friday I finally reply to Celia’s calls and agree to do lunch, as long as it’s private. I get Marco to take me around to her place so she doesn’t have to get decked out in her fake pregnancy outfit just to visit me, and I think she’s relieved about that. She’s not enjoying the subterfuge at all, my outlaw sister.
“How was the funeral?” she asks after hugging me tight.
“Wake. Fine, I guess? Frank seemed to enjoy it.”
She rolls her eyes and we walk through to the kitchen, where she puts on the coffee maker. “I made Frank sleep on the couch that night. He was stinking of booze when he got home from the funeral.”
“Wake. And yikes.”
“Serves him right. What sort of example is he going to set for our child?” She flushes right after she says it, looking away from me.
“Have you seen Hudson again since last time?” I ask, divining her thought process.
“Well, yes. He’s staying here with us.”
I stare at her. “Celia Marie D’Amato. Tell me you didn’t go through with that crazy idea.”
“It wasn’t a crazy idea, and yes I did,” she informs me. “He’s here. Well, nothere, here; he’s at the hospital with Connie. We’ve been trying to alternate so she has someone there with her every day.” With practiced hands, she makes me a strong black coffee, and slides it over.
“And the baby?” I ask. Luca’s threat about cutting out tongues was modified and delivered by yours truly, but I don’t know that I trust the guy yet.
“Hudson understands the dangers. He said he’ll do what’s necessary to protect Connie and his niece. He agreed he wouldn’t be able to care for the child anyway, and he definitely doesn’t want his parents getting involved. He’s…he’s happy for Frank and me to raise her, as long as he can be involved in her life.”
“Settled on a name yet?” I ask. Naming the baby has caused almost as much angst for Celia as wearing the belly-suit.
“The list is only getting longer,” she says dolefully. “Anyway. Enough about that. You want to talk about the funeral, honey? Frank said it goes forthree days.” Her eyes are big and round.
I bite my tongue.
“What’s there to say?” I ask after a moment. “It sucked, my Pops is dead, yadda-yadda. I don’t want to think about it today.” I really don’t. I’m not a natural brooder, and the amount of time I spent yesterday wondering about the meaning of life actuallydisturbsme. “What are you doing today? I need something to occupy myself. Let’s go shopping. Get a makeover or something.”
“It’s Friday.”
