There are only a handful of them: the senior administration. Gene Lombardo, the Family lawyer and my father’s preferred Consigliere, is the first to see me, and give me a nod. Heavy-browed and broad-shouldered, he looks unintelligent, and likes to cultivate that opinion in others. In fact, he is one of the most intelligent men in this city, wielding the law as his weapon of choice.
Lombardo has been talking in an undertone with Vito DiPietro, the man my father appointed as his Underboss until—as my father put it—I could learn to control my temper. DiPietro will not be happy that I haven’t informed him about my father’s demise personally and privately, but angry men tend to slip up, make mistakes; I know that well enough myself. DiPietro likes to think himself clever, but I’ve never been impressed by him. In my view, he only holds his position because he was smart enough to let my father regularly beat him at golf.
And my fatherkepthim in the position that, by rights, should have been mine. I have no love for the man.
A little way from the older men, Silvano Rizzo, the most powerful of the Castellani Capos, is talking to Al Montanari, Family Enforcer. These two are in their fifties, but still consider themselves the “next generation” of the Family. Each of them imagines he is next in line for Underboss, as though my claim on the position doesn’t even exist, and they regard each other as rivals—but they don’t hate each other as much as they hate DiPietro, who refuses to retire or, more preferably in their minds, to die.
Each of these four men are sworn to the Family. Made vows to my father. Tonight I must convince them to swear to me as my father’s heir.
I walk the length of the room slowly, deliberately, and take the seat at the head of the table, ignoring the dark frowns and rumbles. The quiet protests die away as I stay standing.
Duty. Family. Blood. My mother impressed those three values on me before I could even read. My father threw the words around when they were convenient and ignored them when they were not.
I wonder how seriously these four men took their vows.
“Thank you all for coming,” I begin. “Unfortunately, I have tragic and terrible news.”
“No!” Gene Lombardo, who sits at my right hand—what was my father’s right hand—is the first to see the ring on my finger.
Jacopo is down near the end of the table, watching the room steadily.
“Yes. My father is dead.” I have to raise my voice over the shocked gasps. “Worse still, he was murdered.” I let them protest and cry out, then raise my hand for silence. “I understand this is terrible news, a shock to all of you. But I have a duty. Weallhave a duty.” I turn my hand so that they can all see the ring.
I’m not sure what I expected. Not silence, which is what I am granted.
“My father named me his successor long ago. I intend to lead this Family, as he planned, with your support. My first order of business will be to find out who killed my father.”
The uneasy silence drags on, and to my irritation, I see the men looking not at me, but to Lombardo, who at last gets to his feet. “Sandro,” he says, his usually strong voice strained. “You—you must give us a moment. This is a lot to take in.”
“Of course.” I stay standing, looking over the men. “But none of you can possibly have any objections.”
Another silence. “We knew your father’s wishes,” Lombardo says at last, still standing. “But who has done this thing? Do you know? Do you suspect?”
“I believe my half-brother may have had a hand in this evil.”
Jacopo’s eyes meet mine for the first time. He’s annoyed with me, thinks I’m throwing Julian under the bus for the sake of peace. But I have my plans. I want these men around the table lulled into a false sense of security.
I want the killer to think I’ve been successfully fooled.
But my naming of Julian is what breaks the silence. Angry mutters, hisses, cursing fills the air. The scent of violence rising. I know the smell of it.
In another moment, I might indeed find myself wielding off a butter knife attack.
“I’ll carve up his fucking corpse,” Al Montanari shouts, with all the bluster I’ve come to expect from the Castellani Enforcer. “Bring it out! Let us make certain he’s dead!”
I meet Jacopo’s eyes again and see the warning in them. “Be quiet,” I say, and then, sharper, my temper getting the better of me: “Basta!”
But they continue talking amongst themselves until a sharptink tink tinktinkcuts through the noise. Jacopo is tapping a knife against his empty wine glass.
Tapping hisbutter knifeagainst the glass, with his eyes on me.
The men quieten down, and Jacopo clears his throat. “Now, as you all know, I don’t speak much Italian, so I’m not sure what you’re all shouting about. But it seems to me the Boss had the floor. So how about you all shut the fuck up and listen to what he’s got to say?”
I should be furious that Jacopo found a way to quell them when I could not. But I’m struck—as is every other man around the table—by him calling methe Boss.
“What’s he even doing here?” I hear Rizzo mumbling to himself. Jacopo is not a popular man in the Family.
“I understand your concerns,” I say, before the noise starts up again. “And believe me, when I kill Julian, you will know. You will all be invited to view the corpse.”
