He takes another piece of bread and smashes it into the oil as though he’s picturing it as my head instead. “Because Finch wanted me to come. And because I have learned, like Don Corleone said inThe Godfather, to keep my friends close and my enemies closer.”
“I am—I am not your enemy, Luca.”
“You’re certainly not my friend. Although perhaps, as Carlo said that night, you can still be my racehorse, Fontana.”
He looks at me and I think—inevitably, and as he clearly intended me to—of the severed horse head fromThe Godfather. It’s a threat, veiled, nebulous, maybe even meaningless, but a threat nonetheless.
“If you wanted to kill me, D’Amato, you should have done it that night at the warehouse.”
“Yes,” he says. “I probably should have.”
Finch bounces up to the kitchen counter and grabs some bread and oil. With his mouth full, he asks, “So are we all friends again? Did my brilliant idea to come over for dinner pay off?”
“Of course, baby bird,” Luca says, and he even gives me a convincing smile, although it doesn’t warm up his eyes.
“It was a great idea,” I lie, and I smile back.
But over by the window, Carlo is watching us with sharp eyes.
* * *
Later,when they’re gone and we’re in bed, tangled up in each other and kissing, he says, “Itdidn’twork, did it? The dinner, I mean. Luca’s still…”
I get my hand on his ballsack and give it a gentle tug, just to make him gasp. “Luca’s just being Luca. He’ll come around.”
“He’d better. He has more important things to worry about right now. Like the—”
Carlo breaks off as both our phones start lighting up, buzzing, ringing. I let go of his junk and roll over to grab my phone, as he does the same. It’s Vitali calling me.
“Get over to the Fifth Avenue townhouse right fucking now,” he says without preamble.
I’m already moving, pulling on clothes as he speaks. “What’s the threat?”
“Sounds like a full-on attack. Like the one in Boston on the Donovan house.”
“Is the Boss—”
“Don’t know. Get there.”
He ends the call. Carlo is still talking to whoever’s called him to let him know, saying, “Yeah, he’s leaving right now. But Tramonto, what’s going on, what—”
Bobby fucking Tramonto has Carlo’s personal cell number? When did that happen? But I don’t have time to waste wondering about that. I point at Carlo. “Stay the fuck here,” I tell him, and then I’m gone.
* * *
I get thereafter the first responders, but none of them are moving in. They’re all behind their vehicles, taking cover, and I duck behind the nearest ambulance, too, as shots ring out. The place looks like a battle zone. There’s a Hummer half-sticking out of the ground-level front-room window of the townhouse, and from what I can see inside, fire has taken hold. Flames are licking out of the third-floor windows, too, up where Finch and Luca’s bedroom is located.
There are multiple bodies lying on the street. One of them, when I look closer in the angry red light from the fire above, is in an Armani suit. He’s lying on his back, a gun in his loose fingers, and he’s not moving.
I’m pretty sure it’s Luca.
Fuck.
I can’t see any of my brothers, and the police are already trying to clear the area, calling for SWAT backup. I’m out of time.
I check again around the back of the ambulance and then I run over, fast and low, to the dead guys in the street, slowing down as I reach them, my gun ready and out in front of me. I ignore completely the cops screaming at me to stop. Except for the guy in the suit, the other five men in the street are wearing paramilitary gear, with insignia on their arms—the IFF insignia.
The five of them are all very dead.
