“You’re really going to do this? You’re going to sit there and not say a single word. Of course you are. Why would today be any different.”
He pushes off and starts pacing again.
“Antonio Martinez.Antonio.You don’t even—do you have any idea how stupid this is? Any idea. The guy’s been with my father since before you could walk.And you, what? You got bored last night, you decided to take a drive. With Castellano, by the way. I’m hearing this, also. You took my guy with you.”
“He’s not yours.”
“Don’t. Don’t talk.”
He paces back the other way.
“I was on thephonewith him. I want to be very clear about this. I was on the phone with my friend. I was talking to himabout afishing trip,of all goddamn things, Raffaele, fishing—and I hear the wine glass go. You don’t even say sorry. You don’t say there was a misunderstanding. You don’t say,Nico, I have to call you back.You hang up. On me. On the heir to this fucking family.”
He turns to his father.
“He hung up on me, Pa.”
Vincenzo lifts the glass. Sips. Sets it down. He doesn’t intervene.
I let Nico talk.
I learned a long time ago that Nico’s anger has a curve to it. If you let it run, it loses its shape on the way down. If you interrupt it, it sharpens. So, I sit and watch him spiral, and watch Vincenzo, who is watching me back with the small, unreadable patience of a man who has been at this table longer than any of us have been alive.
“You think you’re untouchable.” Nico is talking to me again. “You think because my father loves you, because you’ve been in his pocket since you were fifteen years old and eating out of a fucking dumpster, you can do whatever the fuck you want, and we’re all going to stand up and fucking clap? Jesus.”
He sits down across from me, finally.
“I just want to understand. Help me understand. Help your friend Nico understand. Because for the life of me—I’ve been up since two AM, on the phone with people I don’t like, and I can’t understand it. Antonio Martinez. The guy had connections in New York. He was the one running shit out there. Just fucking why?”
I let the question sit.
“Was it the guys I sent? To her place?”
He sees the darkness flash across my face.
“It is, isn’t it? You’re killing made men over yourreceptionist.Over the fact that I gave you a little nudge. Made men, Raffaele.Guys my father has known for thirty years.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why? Tell me that. Why?”
I almost laugh.
“I felt like it.”
A silence opens up.
“What?”
“Antonio crossed a line. I killed him. That’s what happened.”
“That’s it?” Nico is staring at me. “That’s the answer?I felt like it.”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.” He straightens. He looks at his father, then back at me. “Fucking bullshit. This is something else. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I’m going to figure out what it is, because you do not fucking kill a guy like Antonio Martinez because you woke up in a mood. You’re a fucking lawyer, Raffaele.”
He stands up again. “Are you working behind my back?”
He hasn’t figured it out?
I almost want to congratulate him on it. He told the men he sent back then what to do and where to do it and, presumably, what kind of answers to come back with. And here he is, finally putting the pieces together.
