“That ain’t true. I do what Rosa says.”
“That’s different.”
“And what’s this secret you two keep whispering about?”
I sigh. “Listen, you could do with a night out. Tell that Ricky Benedetti to take you somewhere nice tomorrow night.”
But Sammy is staring at me, eyes narrow. “And now you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“No, I ain’t. You’re the one who wanted to go out with that asshole so bad.”
“He’s not an asshole!”
“Then fucking go out with him! Vito can drive you, make sure you’re okay.”
“I thought you hated the Clemenza,” he says, spitting it out so bitterly that I blink at the tone more than the words. “You don’t hate him. You don’t hate him atall.”
“I told you before, love and hate ain’t got nothing to do with family,” I snap at him. “I told him I’d protect him, and I will, just the same as I protect you. That’s all.”
He turns and stomps out of the room.
Christ. This whole thing is turning into a shit show.
The meeting goes ahead the following night.
Rosa set up the formal dining room for it, the long table extended as far as it will go, and just about every chair in the house has been shuffled into place around it. There’s a long list of men planning to attend, including Scaglietti, the Morelli rat, and I’m worried there might be an even longer list of those who are just going to turn up unannounced.
Every man who comes through the front door, I pat down. Jackets off, arms up, ankles checked. Rosa has set up a side table with a big pot of coffee and a tray of homemade cookies in the room. She offered to cook something special, but I told her no. I don’t want these assholes making themselves at home, and I definitely don’t want them to have access to silverware. The cookies were her compromise.
Sammy and Vito are long gone, picking up the Benedetti kid on the way. By now, Sammy should be sitting in some restaurant in the Village, wearing that butchered suit and laughing at something Ricky said. Safe, because Vito’s taking a seat of his own nearby to watch them.
Once everyone’s arrived and settled, I head up to the bedroom to get Caligula. He’s waiting. He’s wearing fucking business casual,and that hits me right in the heart for some reason. Dark pants. White shirt, open at the throat. No tie. His hair is combed back and his face is calm, but his hands give him away: he’s rolling and re-rolling his shirt sleeve, unable to decide on up or down. He shoves them down when I walk in and turns up just the cuffs.
“Any chance I can persuade you to let me be in the room?” I ask.
“Would you have wanted me in that room with Sebastiano Conti the other day?”
We both know the answer to that.
I lead him downstairs. At the door to the dining room, I stop him with a hand on his arm. His skin is warm through the linen, and I’m aware of how close we’re standing, and how many conversations are happening on the other side of that door.
“You need me, you holler,” I tell him. “I’ll be right here.”
He looks up at me. Those eyes. The ones that watched me from a prison, from a bed, from across a kitchen table. “I know,” he says.
I let go of his arm and open the door.
When Caligula walks into the room, the men stand. A few of them need encouragement, but they stand. He doesn’t acknowledge the tribute. He crosses to the side table, pours himself a coffee, and walks to the head of the table.
“Pour yourselves a coffee,” he says. “It could be a late night.”
I don’t love that this first command gets them all up and moving again, but I see the strategy when I watch him watching them. He’s reading the room. Who moves first, who hangs back, who looks at who. He’s clocking loyalties, friendships, resentments inreal time, and not a single man in that room knows he’s being assessed.
And then Caligula catches my eye from the head of the table and gives me a nod.
The nod means: leave.
I don’t like it, but I do it. I stand at the door for a good half hour, listening to the muffled sound of voices. I can’t make out words, but I can read tone, and the tone is mostly calm. Some laughter. A few raised voices that settle quickly.
