I look at him for a long moment. It’s cool in the suite, the a/c working hard to keep a level temperature, but as I watch, a little prickle of sweat breaks out on Sonny’s forehead.
“It’s hard to get good help these days,” I say after another moment goes by.
“I really am sorry about it,” Sonny says, rubbing his cheek.
“I want the body shipped back to Boston.”
“Sure, sure,” he says. “We can organize that for you. Listen, I hate that your second honeymoon got interrupted like it did. This is my town. I feel responsible, you know?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I won’t hold it against you, Sonny. These things happen.”
“They do, they do.” He rubs his cheek again and then gives another nod. “Well, I’m sure glad we had this discussion. And remember, we’re behind you, Don Morelli, all us West Coasters. You can count on us.”
“That’s good to know.”
We shake hands.
He leaves.
I start to pack.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Finch
It’s a relief to be back in New York, though I’d never admit to Luca exactly how much I’ve missed my city. Vegas was fun in its way, until that last part. But nothing compares to New York. I know this city like a lover. It’s my home in a way Boston will never be—couldnever be—and when I’m away from it, I don’t feel whole.
Plus I have a chance to leave all those memories of Vegas death and torture behind, and pick up all those New York death and torture memories again.
However, with Celia still out of contact on the island, Brother Frank in the hospital, and Marco shadowing every step I take—not that I’m not grateful, you understand, I owe the man my life several times over—New York is not quite the dazzling place I usually find it.
The truth is, I’m despondent.
All my rage has given way and I’m suffering from a low-level malaise that makes getting out of bed hard. The kind ofennuiI used to chase away with pharmaceutical or sexual highs… They never really worked, though, those particular methods.
And all my do-gooding on Fridays only ended in murder as well.
Still, I decide I should probably go and see Aidan. See how that crazy little bitch is doing. Ask him what the actual fuck his damage is, trying to take a bullet formeof all people. Also, I have a question I want to ask him. Something that occurred to me only in Vegas when I was questioning the gondolier.
So when Friday afternoon rolls around, I snap my fingers at Marco and tell him to bring the car around.
He’s been settled in with a Real Housewives Friday marathon all day, and he doesn’t look happy at the idea of going out. “I dunno, Mr. D, that church ain’t the kind of place the Boss would like to see you going back to, and—”
“Who do you work for, Marco? Me? Or the Boss?” I give him my most imperious stare, the one Mom perfected and passed on to me, and he looks away, not wanting to answer.
“Alright, alright. But you stay in my sight at all times. Get it?”
“You did pretty well last time even when Iwasn’tin your sight,” I remind him, pulling on my coat. It’s getting chilly out there these days, or maybe I got used to the Vegas heat.
“About that,” he says, as we walk out front to the car. “That day in the church. All that shit you said to Fuscone before the Boss showed up—”
“Forget about it.” I slide into the back seat, pull the door shut rather than waiting for Marco to close it, and hope that’ll be the end of the lecture.
It’s not.
“Ican’tforget about it, Mr. D,” Marco continues as he slides into the driver’s seat. He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, adjusting it so he can see my face. “It’s my jobnotto forget about it. And what I’m saying is, it’d make my job easier if you weren’t so dead set on getting yourself killed.”
I sigh, and look pointedly out the window. “I’m sorry I’ve made your life so difficult.”
