The Morelli Family Don lived in a well-appointed townhouse on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park at the front. I was greeted by Gio Carlucci at the door, who took me into the foyer and searched for wires. I was pleased to see protocols were being followed, particularly now that some unknown enemy was taking out Family men. We were all on edge, all double-checking everything we did. There were some guards who seemed timid about asking me to open my shirt or unbutton my pants. Not Carlucci, who did his duty without hesitation and without embarrassment. But I’d trained him myself, so I knew he was solid.
“Don Morelli is in the library,” he said once I was re-buttoning my shirt. “He said for you to go on up.”
The townhouse was quiet that morning. I supposed that Finch D’Amato, the Boss’s husband, must be out. He tended to be noisy without even meaning to be, just that kind of personality. I was fond of him, if wary. He was unpredictable, and that made him a liability.
Not long ago I’d been a daily visitor to the townhouse, when I’d served as Luca D’Amato’s bodyguard. And not long before that, I had protected the Old Don, Augustino Morelli, the Family namesake.
I pushed his memory aside for now. I’d return to it later as I usually did, worry at it like a loose tooth, but for now I needed to convince my current Boss to let me do something I knew he wouldn’t want me to do.
When I reached the landing upstairs, I turned left and went down the hall to the library room. The door was ajar, but I knocked anyway, and at the brief call of “Come,” I entered.
Luciano D’Amato was standing with his back to me, hands clasped in the small of his back, as he surveyed the bookshelves. Like Tino Morelli before him, the new Don was a reader, with a preference for the classics. He turned, his thoughtful expression lightening as he took me in.
“Angelo. It’s good to see you.” He came to me and embraced me. So at least he was in a friendly mood, I thought. His method of greetings and farewells could speak volumes about his mood, and he used them to good effect.
“Don Morelli,” I said respectfully, kissing him on each cheek.
He grasped my shoulders and looked into my face. “Strange times, eh? When the Morelli Underboss is mourning one of New York’s finest?”
“Ah,” I said, and stood a little straighter under his hands. He’d caught me unawares. Not something that happened often to me.
“Come and sit,” he said jovially, but I saw the watchfulness in his eyes. “Tell me all about it. Because I know you must have had some purpose, meeting up with an enemy for lunch. Attending his funeral a week later.”
“I should have told you, Boss,” I said at once, following him to the small lounge suite in one corner.
“Should you?” he asked mildly, taking a seat. I waited for him to give an imperceptible nod before I sat as well. He waved a hand to the coffee table between us, where espresso and biscotti waited for both of us.
He couldn’t betooangry if he was feeding me.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Angelo,” he said softly, taking up his espresso and waiting for me to do the same. “I have faith in your judgment, always. I’m merely wondering about your long game.”
I sipped the coffee shot. Espresso had never been my favorite. It reminded me too much of Tino, who had had exactly this breakfast every day: espresso, hot and steaming, with a side of biscotti. It had evidently made an impression on Luca as well.
“Jim Hanson was a reasonable man,” I said slowly. “He’s always been around, a gadfly trying to interrupt our business. I knew him many years, as did Don Morelli—excuse me, the former Don Morelli.”
“Hanson wasn’t on the payroll.”
“No. Too much of an idealist in that sense. But the man was a realist at the same time. He knew better than most that our Families are part of the fabric of this city, that we will endure along with the stones and sidewalks that make up New York. And he’d made his peace with that. What Hanson wanted wasbalance. More than once he came to me with important information.”
Luca’s eyebrows went up. “A rat?”
“No.” I set down the espresso and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees as I thought it over. “Any information he passed on was intended to prevent bloodshed. Once when he heard word of something the Irish were planning. That information helped us with the Donovans back in the day. And once Hanson came to me to tell me that the former Don Morelli was in danger. That intel allowed me to prevent an assassination attempt.”
Luca thought it over. “What was Hanson’s aim in preventing Tino’s death?”
“He knew a hit like that would cause a power vacuum that could tear the city apart. At his heart, Hanson was a New Yorker. His concern was always the welfare of the city.”
“In that sense, he and we are perhaps not so far apart,” Luca said, shifting in his seat. “But the funeral, Angelo? Were you expecting a message from beyond this mortal coil?”
I gave a half smile. “Maybe part of me wished for it. But the truth is, my purpose was twofold. First, I wanted to show my respects.” I glanced up at him and held his eyes.
All he said was, “And second?”
“Before he died, Hanson came to me to let me know he’d been pushed out. He had no interest in retirement. And he told me he sensed something coming…something dangerous. A week later, he was dead. I wanted to see the faces at his funeral. See if I could get an inkling of what he meant. If he was even right about it, of course,” I added. “It could simply have been his bitterness speaking.”
Luca’s finger tapped idly on the thick arm of his chair, the large black Morelli ring slightly loose on his finger, protecting the wedding band he wore underneath. “But you don’t think it was bitterness,” he said.
“I think Hanson looked like a fool but was smarter than most. He also had long experience. If he thought something wasn’t right, I’d take his word over most.”
