The Clemenza doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps one hand over his eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek, as if blocking out the light might make this all disappear.
The vulnerability in his gesture brings an unwelcome memory. My father’s body. His blood, everywhere. I threw my hands over my face when I found Cesario Clemenza standing over him in the kitchen, as though if I couldn’t see the blood, it wouldn’t be real.
My anger returns, that welcome, cold fire of vengeance that Ishouldbe feeling every time I look at Caligula Clemenza. He might react like a child, but he isn’t one. He’s not innocent, either.
He’s a grown man, and he’s a Clemenza, and he deserves what’s coming to him.
I walk over and set the tray down on the end of his bed. “You will eat when your meals appear.”
He says nothing.
“Eat,” I say, settling onto the mattress beside him. “Or you’ll regret it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
He needs to learn.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around the front of his collar. His whole body goes rigid at the contact. His skin is warm under my knuckles, and I can see the fluttering pulse in his throat.
“I saideat.” I pull his face up toward mine. “Or I’ll feed you myself, and you won’t enjoy it.”
His lips stay sealed, and I’m close enough to see flecks of gold shining in his amber eyes, close enough to smell his skin. Forone insane moment, I want to kiss him. Want to cover that smartass mouth with mine and taste him.
Then he yanks away from me and grabs the fork, shoveling eggs in like he’s starving.
“Good boy.”
His eyes narrow with anger at the words, but soon enough he’ll crave my praise rather than my punishment. He’ll see that he’s dependent on me. Dependent on me for everything, down to his next breath.
I like that thought. I like it very much.
I stretch out across the end of the bed, leaning on one elbow as I watch him, making myself comfortable. Making it clear that I’m not going anywhere until I’m satisfied with his performance. The position puts me close enough to touch, and I have to actively resist the urge to smooth his tangled hair.
The urge to play with my toy.
“I’ve been catching up on current events,” I say, watching him chew. “Guess what made the front page?”
He stops mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth, as he looks at the paper I lay out next to the tray. The headline stares up at him in bold black letters.
He puts down his fork and picks up the paper, reading through the story.
“Guess they gave the green light for the sale to continue, since that townhouse is the only thing left that your worthless grandfather owned,” I say with a yawn. “Asset forfeiture is a real bitch, huh? Of course, it’s a pity about your cousin’s ‘suicide.’” Iadd the air quotes. “Guess they got cleaners in to mop up all that blood before the sale.”
His head jerks back as though I’ve struck him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say with fake concern. “Were you close?”
“You’re an asshole.” His voice is raw from disuse.
I arch a brow, encouraging him to continue. To dig his own grave deeper. “Were you fond of him?”
He says nothing.
“I asked you a question.”
“He was Family. That’s all that mattered.”
And now he’s just another piece swept from the board. “Touching. Especially since he would have cut your throat himself if he knew you were queer.”
