My eyes fly open as Fuscone shrugs. “Have it your way.”
“Mr. Fuscone!” Father Benedict bellows. “Please, remember yourself! Icannotcondone murder in the house of God.”
“Not in your office, neither?” Fuscone sneers. “Ain’t much room for both God and you in here. But okay, if that’s the way you want to play. We go out back. But that fairy boy’s time has run out. He dies today.”
For a moment, I think Father Benedict might be aiming to surprise me, and turn out to be a good guy. I take a chance while everyone’s staring at him and slip my hand into my pocket, pressing frantically at my silent alarm.
“I won’t bear witness to your evil,” Father Benedict says heavily. “But I’ll leave it in the hands of God. Do as you will.”
“Father Benedict!” Aidan cries in horror, and the priest turns on him.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy, playing hero? That monster behind you is steeped in blood; he murdered your uncle sure as the hands that committed the crime.”
“No I didnot,” I splutter, outraged, but I shut my mouth as I draw Fuscone’s attention again.
“Uncle Jim lived by the sword and he died by it,” Aidan says quietly, a faint Irish lilt in his voice. “God will condemn you if you stand by and let this happen, Father Benedict.”
Jesus. I’m almost relieved when Fuscone, who seems as tired as I am of this religious bullshit, stands up and motions at us. “Out,” he snaps. “And you’ll come too, Father. You don’t have to watch, but I don’t want to chance you running off telling tales.”
But a noise outside in the hallway makes us all pause: running footsteps.
“Mr. D?” calls a voice. Oh my God, it’s Marco. Blessed, lovely Marco.
Sam Fuscone presses one yellow-stained finger to his lips.
“Couldn’t find you in the library,” Marco calls again. “You down here?”
None of us speak.
“Okay,” Marco says slowly, his voice right outside the door, “so now I’m thinking there’s something wrong, because I heard voices in that office.”
“Who is that?” Fuscone barks.
“My name’s Marco Rossetti. I’m a friend of Mr. D’Amato’s. I’m only interested in Mr. D’Amato right now. If he comes outta that room unharmed we can all just walk away. But if he doesn’t, well. You and I are gonna have a problem, whoever you are.”
“Don Samuel Fuscone,” Sam replies, puffing up his chest with pride. “Whaddya think now, Rossetti? Still think you’re walking away from this?”
“I think you’re making a big mistake, Fuscone.” There’s no fake-friendly in Marco’s voice now. It’s pure steel.
“Are you fuckin’threateningme?” Fuscone barks.
“From where I'm standing, I'm the one under threat,” I point out.
“Shut up,” say two voices: Fuscone and Marco.
Sheesh.
“So what's your suggestion?” Fuscone asks after a moment of silence.
I have to say, I'm impressed with Marco's negotiation skills. I never knew he was that canny. I'm gonna tell Luca to give him a raise—if I get out of this alive.
“I think we’d talk better out in the open,” Marco says. “How about we go back into the community hall to hash it out?”
“I'm not leaving without killing this asshole,” Fuscone says coldly. “Just so you know.”
“Then I'm going to have to kill you too, Sam. You remember me, don’t you? I used to run with your crew, back when you were Capo for Tino Morelli. So you know I do what I say I’m gonna do. Besides, you know Mr. D’Amato’s husband won't let me live if he dies.” And Marco chuckles.
I really hope Luca wouldn't blame Marco for my death, but I also know the rage that can build up in him sometimes. I don't want Marco to die on my behalf. Or Aidan. Or anyone else, ever again.
