“And I am thankful that you have come to live here, too, Signor Clemenza,” she adds.
Caligula’s smile is blinding, but mine drops. “What about you, Vito?” he goes on.
Vito picks up his wine glass and holds it out to Rosa with a nod of his head.
“It seems we’re all thankful for you, Rosa,” the Clemenza says.
Sammy pipes up, “Me, too,” with a glare at Caligula. At least Sammy sees through the wiles and the lies. He always did.
The dinner continues, the atmosphere softening despite the formal setting. Sammy is telling Vito about something he saw on TV, Rosa adding her opinion, and the Clemenza is listening with what appears to be genuine interest, chin resting on his hand, golden eyes glowing in the candlelight.
He’s good, Caligula. He’s very, very good.
Eventually, we get through the food, and dessert, too—Rosa’s pumpkin pie. Rosa, Vito, and Sammy begin to clear the table, Rosa saying that she’ll make up some food parcels for Vito todrop around the neighborhood to some of the people on the street.
“You be careful,” I tell Vito sharply. “Don’t make yourself an easy target.”
Vito shakes his head firmly. And I trust him to be out there on his own. He might have gotten older, but he’s still as savvy as he ever was.
Sooner than I realize, the Clemenza and I are alone in the room, the candles burning lower. I blow them out, then turn to leave.
But I should have known better.
“Wait, Dami.” I hear him push his chair back, and then he brushes past me on the way out of the room. “Let’s take the elevator this time.”
I follow him in, and when he turns to face me, I don’t turn around. I stand there looking down at him, the elevator doors closing behind me, sealing us into this small, mirrored box.
He looks up into my face and says, “Take us down to the basement, please.”
He’s fucking around. “What?”
“The basement, Dami. Take us down there. Now.”
I’ve learned it’s best not to give him any more ammunition than he needs, so I keep my mouth shut and reach for the brass panel where the fingerprint scanner is situated.
A moment later, we’re descending. I stay right where I am, staring down at him, feeling the heat come off his body and wondering if he thinks he’s going to lock me down there in retaliation.
That’s not going to happen. The elevator rises or descends only at my desire, unless he finds a way to cut my finger off.
He stares back. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
We hit the ground. The elevator doors open behind me, and the basement air rolls in, only a little cooler than the rest of the house, and carrying the faint ghost of wood polish and old fabric from the Clemenza furnishings I spent years collecting.
“After you, Dami,” he says politely.
I take a step backward and reach for the light switch next to the elevator doors. The large space takes shape, developing out of the dark like a photograph.
The Clemenza townhouse, dismantled.
He follows me out, not even a shadow of hesitation in his feet, and looks around.
“So you didn’t take out your temper on this part of the collection,” he says. “Only those naughty dishes upstairs.”
“What the fuck are we doing down here?” I demand.
He walks to the bed he slept on while he was down here and turns to face me. In the low light, his eyes are darker than usual, the gold muted. He points to the thick metal collar lying next to the bed, the one with the chain to the wall.
“I want you to put that collar back on me,” he says.
