“Perhaps he knew what my answer would have been.” I’m about to question him further, but he goes on, “As for me, I was just his pet. A useful pet that he could send here and there to do his bidding, but a pet, nonetheless.”
I clear my throat, pull myself together. “If you’re asking me to feel sorry for you, save your breath.”
“I don’t want your pity. Just your respect.”
“Why? Why care at all what I think of you?”
My question seems to genuinely confuse him. “You’re my big brother, Sandro. All I’ve ever wanted was to be like you—and I knew I never would be. So the next best thing would be to at least have your respect.” He leans forward. “The whole Family looks up to you. They’ll make their vows soon enough.”
I can’t stop my eyebrows climbing up as I consider the implications of what Julian has just said. “You’ve been listening in on my meetings with the senior administration?”
“Naturally. Now, imagine if I had been in your shoes, demanding that Gene Lombardo show me due deference. He would have laughed in my face.”
“And you would have cut his off.”
“Perhaps. But it still wouldn’t have made him respect me, would it?”
But I have other things on my mind. “Why did our father call you to his study that morning?”
“I have no idea. But I’ll say this: he’d asked me to break off his affairs before, especially with women who were overly attached. Most of the time they were happy to see things Ciro’s way after I spoke with them. Sometimes…” He shrugs. “I don’t know if that’s what he wanted from me that morning.”
“But it’s a possibility.”
“It’s a possibility.”
A thought strikes me. I open the desk drawer, take out the handkerchief bundle and unwrap it for Julian to see the blackened stiletto. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes.” I brace myself, but he goes on, “It’s Ciro’s letter opener.”
I stare at him. “His what?”
“His letter opener. He used to, you know—” He mimes slitting open an envelope. “I think your mother gave it to him, back in the day. A wedding present, or that’s what he told me once. Interesting symbolism, don’t you think?”
“Our father usedthisas a letter opener?” I’m unreasonably outraged by the idea. It would be like using the Bayeux Tapestry as a hall-runner. The Magna Carta as kindling. The Declaration of Independence as toilet paper. “Had henosense of history? Of tradition?”
“That’s exactly why he never used it in front of you,” Julian says with a grin. “And ofcoursehe had no sense of history. Come on, Sandro. Look at this place.” He throws up his arms, looking around, and I know at once what he means.
Redwood Manor, and everything in it, is a simulacrum of greatness. From the French chateau style of the architecture, to the reproduction furniture, to the second-rate antiques. Everything in here is a grotesque imitation of something my father wished he was, but would never be.
No wonder the Family is falling apart. There is a sickness at its core, a disease not treated, butnurturedby our father.
But for now, I must deal with Julian. “This Houdini act of yours,” I say, “going in and out of the cells. How did you pull it off, with those cameras and microphones down there? Maybe you looped the footage, but I checked on you many times myself. You were always there.”
“How comforting, brother dear, to know you cared so much. But those cameras—” He touches one ear. “I can hear them when they go live. Or maybehearis the wrong word. Something in the frequency changes. Whenever I left the cells, I made sure to make a convincing facsimile of my sleeping self.”
I laugh. He took advantage of my small kindness. “The extra blankets.”
“Yes. Very useful, and easy to roll up, one under the other.”
I cut to the chase. “My problem now is what to do with you. You’re right; the Family doesn’t like or respect you. The menfearyou—but they fear me, too, so you have limited things to offer.”
“But that’s not true at all.” His eyes turn predatory. “Ciro raised me to be a weapon, Sandro. I’m bound to Don Castellani by blood and oaths, and now…nowyouare Don Castellani.”
“Oaths mean nothing to you.”
“But blood meanseverything.” He is fierce and proud as he says it, and I can’t help feeling a burst of sympathetic admiration. “And blood is the only protection that I have. Don’t you think I know that?”
He is quite correct. He lives because of our shared blood, because I’m hesitant to break such a great taboo. Blood ties are sacred. If I were to kill Julian, the Castellanis might be relieved, but many other Families would see it as a betrayal of my kin.
