He’s casual about it, but it must piss him off. It’d piss anyone off. But as he starts telling me about the way his dad would totally set up a fight-to-the-death arena for the law firm if he lived in ancient Rome, I start wondering exactly how far this father of his might go.
“Would he really try to take you out?” I ask, as Carlo waves his hands around to illustrate the size of the trident he’d choose as a weapon.
“—and I could grab that sparkly net off the ceiling of the bedroom,” he’s saying, and then stops dead to stare at me. “What?”
“Your dad. You think he’d ever reach a point where he’d, you know…” I can’t think of a polite way to ask if his own father would ice him, so I don’t try. Carlo knows what I’m getting at, anyway. The laughter dies out of his face. “I’m just thinking out loud,” I say quickly. “Forget it.”
I’m saved, sort of, by the server, who comes back to remove our plates. Carlo doesn’t flirt at all this time; in fact, he’s too busy thinking to even take much notice of her, despite the now-significantly-lowered zipper at the front of her uniform. I have to kick him under the table to reply to one of her questions.
“I don’t know, Nicky,” he says once she’s gone. “And that’s scary, isn’t it? That I can’t answer with a definitiveno.” He leans back in his chair, grasping the sides of the small table in each hand, still frowning in thought at the saltshaker. Then he shakes his head, like he’s getting rid of the thought. “So this restaurateur tonight,” he says, über-casual, but already I feel the muscles in my neck tightening up. “What’s the plan, again?”
“We watch. We see where he goes.”
“You gonna kill him, like this asshole wants you to?”
“What? Of course not.” I cough and have to blow my nose on the paper napkin; the chili’s a little more than I’m used to. “Where the hell did that come from?” I lean in closer and mutter, “Since you ask, I’m not gonna go around killing people just because some fool emails me and tells me to do it.”
Carlo nods.
“So what happened to you not wanting to know anything illegal I was gonna do?” I demand quietly. He shrugs it off and looks around the room, unwilling to make eye contact. The server comes by to refresh our drinks, and conveniently gives Carlo time to think of some explanation.
But it’s not much of one when it comes. “This whole incident has only compounded for me the ways in which my father’s approach is unhelpful,” he says, taking a sip of his wine, and looking me straight in the eye.
“Huh?”
“His obsession with reputation,” he says, like I’m supposed to understand any better what he means. He sighs at my confusion. “He’s a fence-sitter. He wants to be the law firm the Morellis go to, but he also wants people to admire and respect him, not think he’s just some Mob lawyer.”
“Okay?” I say cautiously.
“It would make my job much easier if he’d just accept…” He sighs. “Forget it. Tell me more about the plan.”
“Ain’t much more to tell. We’ll roll up and watch the place, hope he comes in. Follow him home. If he’s alone, we question him. If not…we work something else out.”
“Okay. So you’re not planning to do anything with this guy. But the other one—the one who’s trying to squeeze you—”
I can see where he’s going. “Don’t worry, Harvard,” I tell him. “When the time comes, I’ll take care of him myself. You won’t be in the picture.”
“That’s not what I—”
We’re interrupted yet fucking again by the server, who puts a plate of pasta in front of me that’s swimming in oil and tomatoes, with a few rubbery rings of calamari and more goddamn oysters. Carlo got the fish of the day and it looks a lot better. But I force mine down, overcooked noodles and all, because I want to get out of here.
I don’t like the way he’s asking all these specific questions he said he’d never ask. He’s getting in too deep. I just want to go do the damn job I’m here to do. The job my Bossaskedme to do: solve the Gatti problem. Once I’ve resolved the issue, I can let Luca know it’s handled.
And that I disobeyed his order to stay the hell away from Bianchi, I guess.
I’ve got to focus on the job. Stop letting my dick do the thinking. And as for my heart? It can fuck right off…for now.
* * *
I’m prettyquiet the rest of the meal, but Bianchi works overtime talking enough for both of us. He’s still trying to make small talk when we pull up in front of the restaurant in the Hamptons where our guy Dellacroce is supposed to work.
“Come on, Nicky, talk to me,” he says at last, when I won’t respond to his chatter.
“We’ve got a job to do; let’s focus on that.”
It’s an uncomfortably silent wait, and Carlo Bianchi is a man who enjoys neither waiting nor silence. Five minutes later, he says, “Can’t we just send some teenager who wants to make a buck in there, ask if Bill Harris is in tonight? At least that way we’ll know if we’re wasting our time. It has the added benefit of us not sitting here like a couple of fat turkeys the day before Thanksgiving.”
“I’m not involving anyone else in this. Besides, this is Alessi territory and we can’t be sure who we’re talking to, especially around an Italian restaurant.”
