He probably wishes I’d leave on my own. It would solve a lot of his problems.
I shower and head downstairs ten minutes later, stopping in the foyer to grab the Morelli phone and textStill kickingto Finch D’Amato, who immediately responds with a thumbs-up. I turn off the phone and head to the kitchen, hoping for breakfast…and maybe some company. But the kitchen is empty. Rosa’s been here recently, though, because something is simmering on the stovetop.
I’m reaching for the coffee pot when I feel it—the prickle of being watched. I glance over my shoulder. Sammy is standing in the corridor that leads to the bedrooms, half in shadow, watching me with an expression that isn’t hostile, exactly. Just watchful. Like an animal deciding whether something is a threat.
He’s wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves hacked off at the shoulder, the raw edges fraying over a long-sleeved thermalunderneath. His jeans are held together with safety pins at one knee, and his combat boots are covered in graffiti tags and tied with red paracord. It’s not an outfit so much as a statement.
“Hi,” I say at last, to break the awkward silence.
He pulls back down the hall.
I follow, catching an image on the back of the jacket as he turns, a bird skeleton painted across the denim in white paint. He disappears into one of the rooms off the dark corridor, but he leaves the door ajar, and I see him in there through the gap.
He’s standing in the middle of his room, looking back at me. Waiting.
I knock softly on the open door and it swings wider. The room is half the size of Damiano’s but packed to the brim. Scraps of old metal, flattened food cans, broken glass sorted by color into cardboard boxes, street signs, shipping pallets, dismantled electronics, fabric remnants…
For a second, I wonder if he’s a hoarder. But then I lift my eyes from the floor to the walls.
There’s a piece directly across from me that makes my mouth drop. It’s about three feet tall, assembled from flattened tin cans, shards of glass, twisted copper wire strung with sequins. It’s a man, or the suggestion of one, hunched forward with his arms wrapped around himself. The sequins catch the light and throw it back, so that the figure seems to be…shaking. Shivering in fear. Behind it, dark fabric is stretched across a salvaged pallet frame, secured with bent, rusty nails. Pieces of broken mirror are embedded in the cloth, reflecting the viewer.
I’m looking at a man in pain, and behind him, my own face looks back at me.
These scraps and salvages aren’t junk. They’re his materials. Sammy’s an artist—and he’s good.Reallygood. I know genuine talent when I see it; all those gallery openings with Nonna Mellie gave me that, at least.
“Wow,” I say. “That piece isamazing.”
Something flits across his face. Surprise. Pride, maybe. But gone in an instant. “What do you want?” he asks in a low voice.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” I begin carefully. “I thought maybe?—”
“The wrong foot?” He gives a dark chuckle. “Are you serious?”
“I wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened to you.”
“It didn’thappento me,” he counters. “You peopledid itto me.”
“You’re right. Yes. I’m sor?—”
I break off as he takes a step forward, his hands fisted up by his sides, and I cautiously back up into the hallway. “You think this shit is ‘amazing’?” he demands, mocking my voice. He waves a hand around the room. “You think I got someartistic yearning? You motherfuckers beat me so bad I still can’tsleepmost nights from the pain, and if I do, I have nightmares. Damiano got me into some art therapy class to help, and this is the bullshit that came out of that. So don’t pretend you think I’m some fucking Picasso.”
I feel like I want to throw up. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Sammy, I—I’m so sorry my Family did that to you.”
“If you were really sorry, you’d get the fuck out of this house and leave us alone.” He steps forward and slams the door in my face.
I stay there for a moment, looking at it. I knew there were good reasons for Sammy to hate the Clemenza name. I just never connected those acts tome—never saw the thread tying together my grandfather’s cruelty, my own desperation, and this broken man who makes art from broken things because broken is all he knows.
And what did I do? I threatened his life. I used him as leverage against Dami, the one person who actually saved him. I used someone my Family had already destroyed, used him the way Nonno Lou would have used him. As a tool. A pressure point.
Disposable.
The Clemenza Family was diseased long before Luca D’Amato surgically cut us out. Maybe letting it die completely is the best option. Everyone else seems happy, and the violence they—we—brought to this City has stopped under the Morelli reign.
I walk back to the kitchen in a daze. Rosa has reappeared. She takes one look at me and points to the counter. “Sit.”
She makes me an espresso and starts cooking bacon, eggs, toast. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to insult her. Not after what just happened with Sammy.
“You need to eat more,” she says, watching me push bacon around the plate. “You’re too skinny.”
