“Youhaveme. Always. But…”
“But the Family needs you, too,” he sighs. After another silent moment he says, “I get it. Fine. Canada. Some charming fucking one-bedroom wood cabin where there’s only one bed and we can sleep on bearskins.”
I don’t reply, not then, and just make him lie down and close his eyes. But his reaction has made me think twice.
When we came back from our honeymoon and moved into a shitty railroad apartment, Finch wilted like lettuce left out of the fridge. I can’t chance him spiraling like that again.
Finch is a city boy. He’s like the opposite of a wild animal; his natural habitat is concrete and steel, skyscrapers and subways. If I take him into the wilds of Canada—assuming we don’t just freeze or starve to death anyway—it might expand that ravenous black hole inside of him that needs constant stimulation to keep him on an even keel. Leaving New York, after the dual blows of Tino’s death and his father’s death, might affect him in ways I can’t predict right now.
Boston, Chicago—both definitely out. Miami is an option, but Florida is too close to Celia’s island hideaway for comfort.
No. Safer to just rule out the East Coast entirely. And I might as well head to Canada as take Finch somewhere in the flyover states. Cities they may have, but not the kind Finch would deign to live in. My baby bird is nothing if not a snob.
Where, then? Los Angeles? San Francisco? Seattle might work...close enough to the Canadian border if we need it, and it has its own quirky coolness that Finch might find acceptable.
For now, Ihaveto try to get some sleep. Finch has found his dreams more easily than he has for many nights, and I try not to disturb him as I shift to get more comfortable.
Tonight, we sleep.
Tomorrow, we run.
* * *
Finch hates Seattle.
Finch is not going to lay that out in so many words, but he doesn’t want to go to Seattle, although he’ll suck it up. He makes a face like he caught a mouthful of sand on the beach, teeth grinding away but pretending like nothing’s wrong, while he stands over my shoulder at 5 a.m. and watches me point out where we could stay on the computer screen.
“So,” I sigh. “That’s a no to Seattle.”
“I said okay!”
“Your mouth said yes; literally every other part of you saidno fucking way.”
He hesitates, then drops his head. “It rains a lot in Washington state,” he mumbles.
“I already suggested LA for the weather—”
“Too fake,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “And Frisco’s too full of tech heads these days, plus hills.”
I put my head in my hands. “Baby bird. I just killed Sam Fuscone, and that priest will spill as soon as Marco lets him go.” I glance at the clock on the computer. We don’t have time to argue about this. “As soon as they know, Fuscone’s people will make an all-out assault on us, along with the Clemenzas. We need a head start. We need to leave as soon as possible.”
I have my Capos on the lower floor and soldiers strategically placed along Fifth Avenue outside. It’s not even the Fuscones I’m worried about right now. It’s the Clemenzas. Powerful, prideful, pathological—they won’t hold back when they hear that Luca D’Amato has taken out yet another ally.
And I’d do it over again in a heartbeat.
“Like, how about if we skip out to the Hamptons? Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Too close. Look, this will all blow over eventually,” I say to Finch in a blatant lie. He gives me alook. “I mean, as much as this kind of shit ever does.” God knows, the Family never forgets. “But we need to get off the East Coast for a while.”
“TheentireEast Coast?”
“Yes,” I tell him firmly.
Finch stands up straight and scrubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Listen, I don’t really care where we go, if we’re not in New York. As long as it’s not camping in fucking Arizona or some shit. If I’m with you, I’m happy.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, voice soft. “We can have a second honeymoon. Why not? I’m gonna go pack, forbothof us, and one hour from now, you tell me where we’re going and I’ll take your hand and go. No questions. No complaints. Okay?”
