Chapter Nineteen
Luca
I’m glad Finch is enjoying himself. I am, too, even though for me, this night is a mix of business and pleasure. On the one hand, I did want to make sure I celebrated our meeting, the event that put my life on its current trajectory.
On the other hand, it also gives me an opportunity to see just how closely the other Families are monitoring my movements…and how eager they really are to get rid of me.
With the Morelli Familypersona non gratawith the Commission and our turf getting squeezed, is it even worth the effort of taking us out? If it were me, I’d wait for a natural extinction, maybe make it faster through bribes, flattery and poaching of men. Why waste human resources on an assault when you can hold a siege instead?
But this is Sam Fuscone and his Clemenza allies. Strategy and foresight aren’t capabilities I associate with them. Or perhaps Fuscone’s just too caught up in his bloodlust to care about how many of his men die, as long as Finch and I do, too.
Snapper Marino’s crew have done a good job tonight. Finch hasn’t noticed any of them in the crowd watching over us, and I’ve felt comfortable enough to only have eyes for him. But my lookouts in the streets sighted a combined Fuscone-Clemenza crew making their way here, arguing with the bouncers, now trying to bust their way in.
Tonight I’m celebrating the best thing that ever happened to me. But for the Clemenzas and their allies, it’s the anniversary of the night some gay kid killed one of their own. And not just any Clemenza, either. It was Louis Clemenza’s oldest grandson who had the misfortune to try to take me on that night. I was only vaguely aware who he was when he came at me, and frankly, if he was the best they had to offer, I did the Clemenzas a favor by strengthening their gene pool.
Besides, I’ve paid for it over and over in blood, as they whittle down the Morelli Family. Tonight they won’t get another chance. No, tonight my men and I are decidedly on home ground, and we are never more dangerous than with our backs to the wall.
Finch’s pupils are blown wide as we pause before the office door, and I wonder if it’s sexual desire or the life-and-death excitement making him so high. He licks his lips.
“Baby, we can’t just barge in there,” he says, but he’s obviously dying to do exactly that.
“Oh, didn’t I mention? The new owner of this place—it’s me.”
For a second I think Finch is going to go down on me right there and then, but then the door opens from the inside and he steps back, startled.
“Hey, Boss,” the man standing there greets me. “ThoughtI heard voices. Trouble downstairs?”
“Something like that.”
“Come on in.” He sweeps his arm wide, inviting us in. “Mi casa, su casa.”
“Who the hell are you?” Finch asks, fascinated. “I’ve never seenyoubefore.”
“Nice to think you’d remember me.”
“This is Eddie Garcia,” I tell Finch. “I hired him to be Manager here. He’s done a good job, don’t you think?”
But Finch is already wandering around the room, curiosity all over his face. “This is some cool shit.”
I set Eddie up nicely when I hired him and flew him up from Miami, because I want to keep him loyal. He gets paid a salary as well as a cut of the door, and he also has a damn fine office. It’s all sleek and modern, the kind of cold glass and sharp lines I hate, but it’s what Eddie wanted. So far, he seems to be working out fine.
But it’s not the furniture that has caught Finch’s attention. It’s the myriad photos on the walls of raves gone by, of pride marches and floats, and of famous faces—some of whom are out and proud, some of whom are still tucked up tight in the closet. “Whoa,” Finch says, stopping by one.
“I know, right?” Eddie says with a grin. “You’d never guess. Anyway. What brings you here tonight, Boss? Anything I need to do? A call to our local constabulary?”
Finch does a double take. Normally the last thing we want is the police. But tonight…
“Sure,” I say. “Make sure our particular friends are on it.”
“A drink while you wait? Help yourself.”
“Thanks, but we won’t be staying.”
“Why not? I like it here.” Finch throws himself down on the low modular sofa, the leather creaking under his weight. He slings one leg over the arm. “So we’re not in, like, mortal peril?” he asks, as Eddie calls our contact in the police.
“Not right now. But we’ll take the back route out.” The smirk on Finch’s face tells me exactly what he’s thinking. “Notthatback route,” I tell him in a low voice, but I can’t help smirking back.
“Are we really reliving our whole first night? We’re gonna sneak out the alley door?”
