Caligula gets down to business at last, bringing the conversation back around. “Why were you bidding on me that night at the Obelisk?”
“It seemed like you needed a friend. I’m afraid I can’t help myself; I’m drawn to the underdog.”
“Is that what you were doing? Being a friend? If Dami here hadn’t turned up and made such an outrageous bid, wouldyouhave bought me?”
Tiberius looks between us with an expression of amusement. “It must be comforting to have such dedicated protection.” A glance at me, quick and amused. “Mr. Orsini seems very…attentive.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand. Caligula gives me that thigh-rub again, but it doesn’t calm me down any.
Tiberius leans forward and drops his voice as though we might be overheard. “My intention wasn’t tobuyyou, cousin. My intention was to give that man next to you some time to make it to the auction. I was surprised not to see him there when it began—but I suspected that was by design. So I figured I’d throw a wrench in the Bratva’s works, and make sure Mr. Orsini had his chance.”
The Clemenza doesn’t give an immediate reply. “What do you mean?” he asks at last, and the caution in his voice makes me put down my plate and shift in my seat so I have better access to my gun if I need it.
Marcello sees me doing it, and his eyes fix on me, though he doesn’t move another muscle.
“I thought you would’ve realized by now.” The green eyes turn to me. “I’m the one who texted you that night, Mr. Orsini.”
“What?” Caligula and I say at the same time.
“I wanted you away from the Bratva, Cal,” Tiberius goes on, looking back at his cousin. “I could see that whoever got their hands on you from the Obelisk, they wouldn’t have your best interests at heart.”
“But you thought I did?” I snort. It seems like such a bullshit story. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that all of New York seems to know I want the Clemenzas dead. Including this one.”
“And yet,” Tiberius says, “you were still the least-bad option. I knew Daniel King would never allow my bid to stand. Even if I won the auction, he would’ve been more inclined to slit my cousin’s throat in the middle of that stage before letting him leave with me.”
“If King wanted Caligula for the Bratva that bad, what made you think he’d give him up tome?”
Tiberius gives me a curious look. “Oh,” he says in surprise. “Don’t you know?”
“Don’t I knowwhat?”
My voice is getting louder, and now the Clemenza isn’t just pressing at me with his leg, he’s stamping down on my foot. Marcello’s hand rests on the grip of his gun.
But I can’t calm down. There’s something about the suggestion that this silk-wrapped, self-satisfied fucker was able to read me without even knowing me that infuriates me. I’ve never even met him, but he’s been pulling my strings.
It’s humiliating.
Because if he could see that, what can he see now? What’s he reading on myfaceright now? Does he know what I’ve done—in the basement, in the safehouse? Does he know how much it’s eating me up, and how much I don’t understand why that is?
At least I can finally readhim, see Tiberius Vicario as he truly is: just as devious as any Clemenza, just as cunning as his great-grandfather, Carmine Vicario, who ran the entire East Coast before his end.
“Well, I don’t like getting involved in all those Family politics,” Tiberius says airily. “I’ve been a terrible gossip today—but that’s how it is with friends. Right, Cal? We always say a little more than we mean to.”
I’m not ready to let it go so easy, and I’m tired of all the games these two are playing. “Look, what the hell are you doing back in New York?” I ask. “You got the same plans as this one?” I thumbat Caligula. “You want to resurrect your dead Family? Or are you secretly trying to kill your cousin?”
Tiberius raises his eyebrows. “Why would I want to do that, when I can just wait out my dear cousin—and then claim the lot? Both the Clemenzasandthe Vicarios will answer to me once he’s dead.”
Caligula has gone very still beside me, those golden eyes fixed on his cousin. “Is that what you want?” he asks coldly.
“Hmm.” Tiberius lounges back across the sofa like a Roman emperor, propped on one elbow, his kimono falling open to reveal a collarbone. “Let’s say it is. What would you do about it?”
It’s thewayhe says it that gets me. So fucking condescending, and his pink lips curling up in a smile.
I grip the edge of the coffee table and flip it.
Tea and china and figs and prosciutto go flying toward the Vicario. I’m on my feet before the table hits the ground, one hand on Caligula’s shoulder pressing down hard to keep him right where he is.
With my other hand, I pull out my gun.
