Another gathering of the senior administration was just another chance for them to display their lack of confidence in my leadership. Lombardo might support me, but the others are wavering. There’s only so long I can scare them into submission before they try to displace me. And I don’t blame them. If I were in their shoes, I’d wonder what the hell I was doing, too.
In fact, I’minmy shoes, and wondering what the hell I’m doing. Despite Jacopo’s nose for these kinds of things, he keeps coming up empty-handed. My mother has become a background irritation, surfacing to sting from time to time with her pointed texts. I asked her point blank when she was returning to Italy, and got no response.
And then there is the upcoming visit of the Morelli Don. I’ve received a specific date now: next Saturday night, and there are multiple security considerations. Worse, my mother keeps inserting herself into the plans with endless suggestions for menus, guests…
She wants Teddy there for some reason.
Teddy.
I take breakfast out on the back terrace again this morning, and I think about Teddy sitting there opposite me, that first morning when he was here, still my prisoner. I think about how he ate three croissants, and find myself smiling.
But the inevitable doubts creep in. What does Julian know that I don’t?
Am I making a fool of myself with Teddy MacCallum?
Jacopo is due to come by and give me an update soon. If there were any red flags in the background check, he would have let me know straight away. But I still feel unsettled.
I’m interrupted by Wilson, who comes out with the cordless landline and the day’s mail on a small platter. “I’msosorry, sir,” he says, and he does sound deeply apologetic. “But there’s a phone call that I believe you will want to take. It’s a Mr. Bernardi. Mr.AldoBernardi.”
I try not to react, but it is a surprise. Why the hell is the Bernardi Boss calling me, particularly on a regularly-tapped line?
“I’ll take it.”
Wilson hands me the phone, bows his head, and takes his leave.
“Don Castellani,” Bernardi greets me, and when he goes on, it’s in Italian. “I’m so glad you had a moment for me.”
“Of course,” I say neutrally.
“First, I wanted to extend my personal condolences to you on the loss of your father. A great man, a great man.”
“Thank you.”
“And the second reason I’m calling is for a more joyous occasion—the engagement dinner of my youngest son, Ambrogino. You know that he’s getting married.”
“I do, yes. My father received your generous invitation.” The very day of the murder, in fact. My father had been reading that invitation when he was struck down, based on the scene of the crime.
“Of course that invitation now extends to you, Don Castellani—both to the wedding, and to the engagement party as well. My son and his fiancée have combined celebrating their engagement with an art auction for charity. Not my thing, but it’s not my wedding, after all.” He chuckles. “Thursday night. I trust you’ll be there?”
There’s a long pause as I try to figure out where the hell this is going. I know my father would have gone to both functions, despite the bad blood between our Families, because he loved Hollywood parties. Roxanne Rochford is a rising star, and both functions will be filled with Hollywood types as well as Family.
But he also would have gone because weddings and funerals—even those that have been caused by each other—are times when the Families put their differences aside. They give us a chance to size up the opposition, for one thing. And for another, the links of blood and marriage between our Families run deep.
As much as we hate each other, there are ties that we cannot deny.
But it was a Bernardi crew who cut my face. A Bernardi crew that meant to kill me that night in Chateau de la Lune.
And more than that, this engagement party was the one that Teddy sent me a message about. Lina Lamond will be going—to a Mob-filled Hollywood party. I might find something out about her associations, if I go.
“There will be no photographers allowed,” Bernardi says as the silence drags on. My hand tightens on the phone. If he is gloating about my face— “Many of our friends will be there, you understand,” he goes on. “People who shy away from publicity.”
Perhaps he did not mean to insult me after all.
“I’d be very honored to attend,” I say at last.
“And your brother, of course. Such a charming man.”
“My half-brother will not be able to attend. He is unwell.”
