I remember that day in Nonno Lou’s study. I was thirteen, my grandfather insisting I was old enough to start learning about the business, and I could see, clear as day, that Strike couldn’t have been the rat. The logic didn’t work. But Nonno Lou had already decided, so except for my father, no one said a word—and as always, Nonno Lou enjoyed ignoring my father.
Sometimes I think he hated my father as much as he hated me, and I have no idea why.
Anyway. I laid out the logic. And my grandfather, for once in his miserable life, listened.
After Dad and Strike left to take care of the real rat, I got the back of Nonno Lou’s hand across my face. Hard enough to stun me. Hard enough that Nonna Mellie pressed ice to my cheekafterward, smoothing my hair and murmuring endearments while the side of my face swelled up.
It was the ring that hurt the worst, catching on my cheekbone. The ouroboros ring that Nonno Lou wore as head of the Family.
I told my father I’d fallen down the stairs. If he’d found out what really happened, he would have done something that couldn’t be taken back.
He would have killed Nonno Lou.
And then my uncle Patrizio, the eldest son and heir, would have to kill my father. I knew how the Family worked.
I saved Strike, but I condemned another man. Bruno Nardelli had always been kind to me when he visited the house. He’d give me candy from his pocket and pat me on the head and tell me to grow up big and strong.
But even so, he was a rat.
“All clear,” Damiano calls from outside the house.
I turn back to Strike, who’s holding on to one of my hands with both of his, a look of reverence in his eyes. “I’ll call on you soon,” I tell him. And then I drop into the conversation the other thing I’ve been mulling over. “By the way, I need to speak to one of my cousins. Tiberius Vicario. Do you know where he’s living these days?”
The blank look on Strike’s face tells me he doesn’t. “Vicario?” he repeats. “They’re all gone. They died out after Chicago.”
When I’d heard about that Chicago massacre, I’d been sohappyfor a few hours. The reports said everyone was dead. But Nonno Lou came crawling back alive, the proverbial cockroach. Aliveand indebted to Luca D’Amato. I don’t think his pride ever recovered from that blow. It only made him more vicious.
So I have no doubt at all that what Finch D’Amato claimed was true, that my grandfather tried to kill Don Morelli at that dinner. Nor do I personally blame Finch for defending his husband.
But as a Clemenza, I can’t forgive it.
“My cousin is still around,” I tell Strike. “I just wondered if you’d heard from him. I know he was anxious to see me, too.”
Strike’s face clouds. “Don’t trust anyone,” he tells me. “Especially not that Giuliano. You should come and stay here?—”
“Thank you, but no,” I say firmly. And then I try one more time. “About my father and Vincent Orsini—youreallydon’t know why Dad killed him?”
Strike gets that mulish look again, but then I see him waver. And I could swear he’s about to tell me something when a shadow appears in the doorway. “You fucking coming, or what?” Damiano grunts.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell Strike through a grit-teeth smile, and I follow Dami out the door and back to the car. “Impeccable timing, as always, Orsini,” I sigh, as Vito opens the door for me.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks, getting in the other side. I just shake my head.
I’m still thinking about the ring.
The ouroboros ring. The sigil of the Family itself.
Ineedthat ring if I’m ever going to be recognized. It’s part of our traditions. If I can’t find it…
I can’t be Don Clemenza.
And I have no clue where it is.
It wasn’t in the list of assets sold off as part of the estate. It wouldn’t have been buried with Nonno Lou, either. My cousin Louie might have had it? But even though I only saw his body for a few seconds before I ran, I’m sure I would have noticed the ring on his finger. It’s hard to miss. So?—
“So, I guess now you see how fucking dumb it was to run out in the middle of the night looking for these Loyalists of yours,” Damiano says. “Happy to hear an apology any time.”
“They are my people,” I tell him. “No matter how low they might have fallen, they’re still my people.”
