“You want to go downstairs, bang a knife on a champagne glass for quiet, then explain to the Giulianos not only that their man liked men, but—oh yeah—you invited him up to your room, sorry he ended up dead?”
That’s too much. “Ididn’tinvite him,” I argue, pushing Nick’s hand off my waist.
“They won’t see it that way.”
“Hechoseto come in here and assault me. Which was pretty fucking stupid of him when you think about it, because if he’d killed me like he clearly wanted to, he would’ve been stuck in the same position we are now: trying to hide a body.”
Nick takes a step back, nodding. “Don’t look now, counsel, but you’re making a cogent legal argument or whatever. So, is your head back in the game? You ready to help me make this problem go away?”
There are a lot of rumors about Nick Fontana, and even though I try not to listen to rumors about my clients—it doesn’t help my poker face any if I’ve just heard about someone’s coke habit and I’m defending them on a road rage charge, for example—it’s hard not to have heard some shit about this guy. He’s Don Morelli’s Go-To Guy, his Solver of Problems, Capo of not just one but two regions. He’s next in line to be Underboss, if the rumors are to be believed.
When I consider Nick’s calm in the face of this catastrophe, I think all that is probably true, but there’s also a darkness to him that suggests far worse rumors might be true as well.
“Why do I need to help?” I whisper.
He gives me a hard stare. “Because this guy’s dead inyourroom, Harvard. No getting around it.”
Not for the first time, I find myself wishing Nick had let the guy finish the job. My life would be a lot simpler right now.
Chapter Nine
Carlo
The next thing Nick does is leave me there all alone, so naturally I lock myself back in the bathroom again. I just can’t look at the dead thing on the carpet, and I’m starting to leak lube everywhere. So I take care of business, then shower fast and pray to whatever God usually listens to me before court appearances that Nickwillactually come back, and not leave me to deal with this problem all on my own.
Oh, God. What if he does?
What if he goes back to Luca D’Amato and tells him thatIkilled this guy? What if—
I press my head against the cool tile of the shower and breathe deep and slow. Remind myself that no one anywhere is going to believe that, between me and Nicky,I’mthe one who took out Ray Gatti. Remind myself that I’m fucking Mr. Fix-It, and if I can talk a Morelli out of questioning from a federal Task Force, I can sure as hell talkmyselfout of trouble…even if the Mob aren’t quite so keen on process as the Feds.
I clean out my nose, get rid of the blood, and then I get out and stare at myself in the mirror for a while. My eyes are bloodshot and my nose is still tender. There are bruises all over me where Gatti held me down, and my cheekbone hurts when I press it.
But I’m alive. I’m alive.
I really thought I was a goner when Gatti attacked me like that.
I pick up my phone from where it’s lying on the bathroom cabinet—I don’t even remember taking it in with me—and take some photographs of my bruises. Even catch myself wishing I’d done this pre-shower, when the blood traces were still there. I don’t know if the pictures will be any use, but I’m too well-trained not to photograph evidence when it’s right there and available for my own defense.
When there’s a knock on the door in the other room, it’s the first time I go back out there. I stand in front of the door, hesitating. For a moment I worry it’s someone—anyone—else. But then Nick calls quietly, “Room service,” and I know his voice.
I’ll know it forever.
I open the door and see him dressed like one of the staff here. It’s his own black pants, white shirt, but he’s grabbed a cap from the kitchens and a jacket with the Villa Alessi crest on the pocket that the staff wear around here. The jacket is straining to contain his upper-body muscles, and he gives me an impatient up-nod when I stand there staring too long.
I stand aside as he wheels in a big cart with plates on it, topped with silver covers. He looks every inch like he really is delivering room service, and I happen to know that thereisroom service in this particular mansion, according to the welcome folder I read on arrival. Villa Alessi is more like a hotel than a house, although thank God I asked not to be disturbed while I was here, so there’s no chance of an early staff member becoming a problematic witness.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say as he wheels past me.
“Yeah, you should probably cut that out.”
“I’m serious,” I insist. “We should call Don Morelli right now, get him here, explain—”
Nick stops and gives me a familiar, exasperated look. “You think the best course of action right now is for me tocall the Bossand get him mixed up in this shit? Hell, no. Once we’ve got it under control, then I’ll have a quiet word. But not before. Luca won’t thank me for pulling him out of his husband’s ass just to make him a party tothismess.”
He has a point, and my protests die away. I guess when it comes to protocols around covering up dead bodies, Nick Fontanaismore of an expert than me.
I look at the silver covers on top of the wheelie table and feel my gorge rise. “Please tell me you’re not going to dismember the—the body and—” I cut myself off, gagging.
