Perhaps solutions spawn solutions, too. The mansion was only supposed to be a stopgap place to live, but there’s something that seemsrightabout his suggestion. Tara has Hillview. I want my baby bird to have a place to call his own, too.
And I want a palace from which to rule. The townhouse was where I found my feet, and where Finch and I began our marriage, but things have changed now. For me. For us. For our partnership.
“I think that’s a great idea,” I told him.
The other thing I like about the mansion is that it has at least three exits: front door, back door, and the tunnel, which Vitali is quietly extending back into its Prohibition-era route, to exit at the river. If we get firebombed, God forbid, we’ll have options.
And I’ve also allowed Vitali to install panic rooms on every level.
Solutions spawn solutions.
A place to live—done. And as we drove back to New York, I received a call about another solution: my financial advisors, telling me I’d been granted permission to buy up the stock I wanted, making me a majority shareholder in the company Louis Clemenza relies on. It seemed that La Contessa, as controlling partner of the objecting board faction, had done me a favor.
She knew as well as I did that the “assassination attempt” in Venice was not what it seemed, but perhaps I’d amused her—I wouldn’t dare to think I’d actually impressed her—or perhaps she was as tired of the Clemenzas as I was. In any case, she’d gone ahead and withdrawn her objections, which allowed me to put Lou Clemenza’s entire holdings in danger. He’d made some bad financial choices over the last five years, and also some stupid ones. Now I could take advantage of that fact.
“Did we do the right thing about the IFF?” Finch asks when the call is finished.
“I believe so.” We agreed to leave it in Tara’s hands. Let the Irish deal with Irish problems. I have enough Italian problems of my own. “We need to deal with this Vollero business,” I say to Finch. Manhattan is in sight. We’re nearly home.
“We do,” he agrees, rousing himself from his thoughts. He stretches as well as he can in the car, and reaches a hand up behind my neck to massage it. I smile and lean back into his kneading fingers. “Tonight?” he asks.
“Not tonight. We’ve seen enough blood for one day, and I want to speak to the Commission about it first, too.” This day has felt like an eternity, and when we get back to the mansion, all I want to do is to fall into bed with Finch and hold him close.
“Fuck the Commission,” Finch sighs.
“I’m not going to take out a senior Family member without their say-so,” I insist.
“Fuscone did.Clemenzadid.” The venom drips from his tongue.
“Yes, and look at the consequences. I’m not going to destabilize New York any more than I have to. I might be the head of the Commission, but I always intend to consult them on decisions like these.”
Finch is silent for a while, squeezing at the knots in my shoulders now. He has a wonderful way of knowing exactly where all my physical tension is bunched up. “I want to be there when it happens,” he says after another minute.
“Naturally.”
“But I also need to go see how Kismet’s doing for a few nights this week,” he reminds me. “See how Hudson’s managed in my absence.”
I give the same theatrical groan Finch gives whenever I tell him I need to go back out to work after dinner. “It’s always work with you, baby bird.”
It gets a laugh out of him at least, and then we lay our plans.
I remember Nick Fontana talking about how he preferred having Bianchi more deeply involved in the business, because he didn’t have to watch his words so much. But it’s not just that, I see now, or maybe I just understand better what Nick really meant.
Like everything else in life, it’s abouttrust.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
FINCH
Having Louis fucking Clemenza over for dinner on a Thursday night is not my idea of a great time, but the situation in New York is becoming exponentially dangerous. The city is on a knife-edge, the tension making its way even to my own nightclub. There was an altercation outside Kismet on Twinks Tuesday, a bunch of Clemenzas and a group of Morelli soldiers throwing down. No deaths, but a lot of hurt pride and wounded feelings. I didn’t like it any more than Luca.No Mob Businessis the unspoken but strongly enforced motto at Kismet. I know better than anyone that half of Kismet’s patrons come there because of the allure of who I am—who my husband is—and the thrill of being danger-adjacent.
But therealityof Family business will only put them off…and the Clemenzas are out of control.
So on Thursday night, having recovered from our jet lag, we have Lou Clemenza around for dinner. It took a lot of negotiating, a lot of sweet-talking, but in the end, he agreed. On his arrival, Luca’s bodyguards patted down Clemenza, and Clemenza’s bodyguards patted down Lucaandswept the formal dining room for any stashed weapons.
“No one wants to patmedown?” I pouted, fluttering my eyelashes at Clemenza’s biggest bodyguard. He made a visceral face of disgust, and Clemenza actually laughed.
“I’lldo it,” muttered the second guard. “Keep the fuckin’ peace.”
