“Haven’t heard anything,” I say briefly. Angelo Messina’s out there cleaning up some of that mess, building bridges and all that good shit that Luca’s been trying to do lately. We’ll need all the allies we can get when the coming war with the Irish kicks off, and it’s just a matter of time before that happens. But this Gee doesn’t need to know that. None of them do. And even if the Fedsarekeeping extra busy out there, they’re squeezing the wrong nuts. Messina’s still a free man.
Frangello shoots his mouth for a while, talking about the old days as if the Gees never fucked me over, laughing and joking. I pretend to listen while I watch Bianchi’s father charging over to him like a bull seeing a defenseless matador on the ground, begging to be gored. Not that Carlo’s defenseless. Guy’s got a mouth on him that stings. It’s funny enough when he turns it on the cops, but once or twice he’s used that barbed tongue on me, too—in bed, just to make me fuck him harder.
He’s a talker. And he’s had too much to drink tonight, based on the way he’s grabbing onto the bar for balance.
“—because I didn’t like the way it went down with you, Fontana, I never liked it, but Big Gee, he’s a better man than Jimmy was, and it’s good to see you moving up the ranks in the Morellis like you are, but I know Big Gee would really like it if—” the Giuliano is going on, his voice a low rumbling undertone. My attention is firmly fixed on Bianchi and his father. They’re having some kind of argument, judging by the tension in the old man’s shoulders. When he whirls around and walks off, I can lip-read Carlo’s reply, even from this distance.
Fuck you.
I try to focus back on my own conversation, but my attention is caught by Ray Gatti instead, who’s glaring straight at Carlo from the wedding party table up front, ignoring everyone around him. Carlo’s already staggering towards one of the doors to the balcony, a long-necked bottle of tequila clutched in one hand.
I finger the phone in my pocket, wondering. He’s not going to be up for it later on, is he? Not if he finishes that bottle, damn him. And I’ll lie alone and frustrated in an unfamiliar bed.
He just about stumbles going through the door to the balcony outside, and I have visions of him toppling over it. We’re up on the second floor here. He really could do himself damage.
And then I spot Gatti pushing his way through the crowd, barely even acknowledging the congratulations and the salutations as he goes, his eyes fixed on that door out to the balcony. I look around, wondering if anyone else has noticed. The Morellis are under strict instructions to keep the peace: no goading, no insulting, no fighting. And if we see something that looks like it might happen, we’re supposed to step in before itcanhappen.
I don’t have to be psychic to foresee a few unpleasant consequences for Bianchi. But would Gatti really be stupid enough to start a fight at his own wedding?
What the hell am I thinking? Of course he would. He’s a Giuliano.
“We should talk more about this later,” I say to Frangello, patting him on the shoulder. “In private, eh? After the meeting. We’ll talk more then. I gotta take a leak right now.”
I try to follow in Gatti’s wake, weaving through the crowd through the holes he left, hoping no one will grab me to start another conversation about problems that aren’t mine. I manage to reach the door just a few minutes after Gatti has banged it shut, and when I get out on the balcony, I’m glad I followed my instinct.
“Get the hell off me,” Bianchi is choking out, pulling with no effect at Gatti’s wrist, at the hand wrapped around his neck. Gatti has him backed up against the railing, bending Bianchi right over it.
“Hey,” I say sharply. “There some problem here?”
Gatti looks over his shoulder at me, the same bullish, glazed expression all the Giulianos wear, but when he sees me, he thinks better of what he was going to say. “We got no problem,” he says, pulling Bianchi upright again. He lets go of him and takes a step back.
I ignore Gatti, because I wasn’t asking abouthisproblems. “You okay?” I ask Carlo, who’s still holding onto that fucking bottle of tequila.
“Suuuure.” He slurs the word out long and then chuckles. “We were just having a tête-à-tête, weren’t we, Ray? A little heart-to-heart about the wedding night,” he adds, when Gatti gives an uncomprehending look.
The problem with Bianchi is, he always has to be a smartass, even if he’s in danger of getting his lights punched out. Maybe especially then.
“The fuck did you say?” Gatti snarls, sensing the insult if not really understanding it.
“Your godfather’s looking for you,” I tell him.
Gatti’s godfather is the Don of a different Family, Louis Clemenza. I have no idea if Don Clemenza has any actual interest in seeing his godson tonight, but even the suggestion of it can’t be ignored. I know this.
Gatti knows it, too.
He gives me an uncertain look, then pulls away from both of us with a glare of warning, spits on the tiles, and then shakes his finger at Bianchi before he disappears back into the ballroom.
“You’re my knight in shining armor tonight, Nicky,” Bianchi tells me with a wider, drunk grin. I look him head to toe and sigh.
“Give me the tequila.”
“No. ’S’mine.” He wraps his arms around it like a child.
“Give me the bottle or I’ll take it off you.”
He stands there smirking for another few seconds, but drunk as he is, he still recognizes that I’m serious. “You’re no fun,” he grumbles, and holds it out for me.
I take the bottle from him in one hand and slide my arm around his waist with the other. Fuck it, there’s no one out here, and his mouth is shining and wet in the light. “You know that’s a lie.” I kiss him until his knees give out, and then I prop him up against the balcony. “Why the hell are you picking a fight with Ray Gatti?”
