He’s pacing again. The tic at his eye is worse.
“Are you with the Morenos? Is that it? Tell me it isn’t, Raffaele. Tell me you haven’t been sitting in that office on my dime, onmy father’sdime, taking meetings. Because you can’t—you don’t get to do this. Not unless someone is paying you for it. And the only person in this city who would pay you to take Antonio off the board is Victor goddamn Moreno.”
“Nico.”
“No. Listen. I’m thinking out loud here. Because it makes sense. Victor is the one who’s been at the gala running his mouth. Victor is the one who’s been parking guys outside ourplaces. And now Antonio—Antonio, who was the one moving most of our northern numbers—Antonio is dead, and the lawyer who did it is sitting in this room not telling me why. Either you’re losing your fucking mind, Raffaele, or you’re working with Victor Moreno, and if it’s the second one I want you to know, I want you toknow, that I will personally?—”
“Stop.” I don’t raise my voice. “You’re right. It’s the girl.”
“What?”
“It’s the girl. Antonio sent men to her apartment. I’m not declaring this in the way I should have, and that’s on me, but I’m declaring it now. She’s under my protection. Anyone who lays a hand on her answers to me. Antonio laid a hand on her. He answered to me.”
The room rearranges itself.
Nico’s expression shifts in stages: confusion, then a flicker of relief—oh, that’s all it is.Then, behind that, the slow refilling of the original outrage, transformed into pettier conviction. He stares at me.
“So, my first guess. Right out of the fucking gate. Right at the top of the conversation.”
“Yep.”
“You killed a made man over a piece ofass.” He laughs. “That is—Raffaele. That is—I don’t even?—”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Watch my mouth.” He’s laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.Watch my mouth.For yoursecretary, who has been at the firm for what, six weeks? He’s defending her honor, Pa, do you hear this? He killed Antonio Martinez to defend thehonorof a girl whose last name I had to look up?—”
“Nico.”
“—like we’re in a fucking opera. Antonio’s been telling me for years he doesn’t trust this guy, and I’m starting to see why. This is?—”
“Enough.” Vincenzo sets the glass down.
Both of us turn.
“Antonio is dead.” A small wave of the hand. “Done. Can’t be undone. Wouldn’t want to undo it, frankly. Man had no taste in wine.”
“Father, this isserious?—”
“Is it,” Vincenzo says. “A man at my level does not explain himself, Nico. Not to you. Not to anyone. Whatever happened between Raffaele and Antonio—disrespect, business, a pair of tits being compromised—doesn’t matter. The man is dead. Raffaele made a decision. That’s what men in powerdo.”
“You’re taking his side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m drinking.” Vincenzo lifts the glass an inch in salute and sets it down again.
“He killed our biggest earner. Come on.”
“And now we’ll find another.”
“This isunbelievable.” Nico is looking between us. “He murders a made man—amade man, Father—and you’re going to sit there and?—”
“Yes.” Vincenzo’s voice is mild. “That is exactly what I’m going to do.”
Vincenzo takes another sip. He sets the glass down. He looks at me with what is, briefly, almost a smile.
“Oh. One more thing.”
“Yes.”
