We were greeted by the same butler, who took us into the salon again. “Mr. Castellani will join you shortly. May I offer you gentlemen pre-dinner cocktails?” The butler’s accent was genuine English, and he looked like the Platonic ideal of a butler, if there was such a thing: balding, with his remaining hair smoothed back at the sides of his head; he wore tails and a white bowtie, but his pristine white gloves marked him as staff.
“No, thanks,” Angelo said.
“You know what,” I said, “I’ll have a beer.”
Angelo hid his smile from the butler, who hesitated only a moment before replying, “Of course, sir. At once.”
I grinned across at Angelo once he’d gone. “I know it’s cocktail hour. But I really just feel like a beer.”
There were footsteps nearby, coming down a staircase, and then a figure appeared in the doorway from the foyer. For a moment I thought I recognized him, and then I didn’t—and then I did again. It was Alessandro Castellani, with about a decade on him from the time of his mugshot, but that wasn’t what had made me stare. No; I was stuck on the prominent, raised scar bisecting his eyebrow and running down his face.
I realized how rude I was being and looked away, but he paused in the doorway to give me a long, cold stare that suggested I might end the night with a stiletto inside me.
“Messina,” he said, turning to Angelo as he advanced into the room. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He put out a hand. “Alessandro Castellani.”
Angelo came forward and they shook hands, sizing each other up like a couple of prize fighters. Angelo didn’t even blink at the scar, but then, there were plenty of Morellis with scars of their own. Frank D’Amato, for example, was unrecognizable these days.
And Angelo had his own scars, hidden away under those expensive shirts and tailored suits. Scars that I regularly traced over with my fingers, my lips. The life of a mobster left physical reminders along with the psychological trauma. My own mind flashed back for a moment to the laid-out bodies in that storage container, and I was grateful for the distraction when the butler came back in with a tall, frosted glass of beer on a silver platter.
“Thanks,” I said, and took several long swallows.
“This is my partner, Baxter Flynn,” Angelo said, and I gulped down the last mouthful hastily, hoping I wouldn’t choke.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, swapping my beer to the other hand, wiping my hand dry on my thigh, and shaking his.
I felt even more awkward than I appeared. If that were even possible.
But I looked him straight in the eye as we shook, and I could feel him sizing me up. I’d done a little more research on Alessandro before we’d arrived, though his scar had never come up in my reading. The oldest son of Ciro, he’d been shipped off to Italy at a young age, where he was educated at exclusive boarding schools. He’d stayed there after graduation and hadn’t returned to the States until his early twenties.
“So you’re the Fed,” he said to me. He had a faint accent, presumably picked up during his years abroad in Italy—or maybe, I analyzed, he’d kept it on purpose. It would make sense. Give him authenticity, authority.
“I’m theex-Fed,” I corrected.
“But you still have useful connections.” It wasn’t a question, so I waited for him to go on. “This rat, Greco, you’re turning him in?” He kept hold of my hand, still squeezing it, so I squeezed back.
“That’s the plan.”
Alessandro let go of my hand, looked over to the butler, and clicked his fingers. “Jeeves. I’ll have a beer as well. Whatever our new friend is having.” The butler hurried away.
I watched him go, waiting until he was out of earshot, and then asked, “Seriously? His name is Jeeves?”
For the first time, Alessandro smiled. It was a strange smile, twisted but genuine, and I wondered if whatever had left that scar on his face had also affected some of the tendons and muscles necessary for smiling. “No,” he told me. “His name is not Jeeves. I call him that because it amuses me, and because it irritates my father.”
I chuckled, and Alessandro did too.
“If it were up to me,” he said, as though he were continuing the conversation about the butler, “I’d kill Greco rather than turn him in. But I suppose you Feds have less sense of honor. Our rats are your pampered pets.”
I stopped snickering. “Angelo and I are not vigilantes. And we’re not interested in Greco beyond the information he has.”
Alessandro covered his mouth in a parody of politeness as he gave a small yawn. “I don’t care to argue about it,” he said lazily. “I’m just letting you know, if it weremydecision, the man would already be dead for dishonoring his vows. But I’ll respect my father’s wishes. There are others in Los Angeles, though, who are not tied to my father in the same way.”
“You’re saying he’s a target,” Angelo confirmed. He’d been admiring one of the vases on a side table.
“I’m saying you should make sure you have him in averysafe place…if you want to keep him alive.”
I didn’t like the inference, but I changed the subject. “We’ve had a lot of help from one of your father’s men—Jacopo. He’s been very useful to us.”
Alessandro was standing near the extinct fireplace. At my mention of Jack’s name, he turned and spat into it.
