Page 126 of The Beast Who Begged Me

“Seb Conti,” I say. “Giuliano Underboss. Big Gee had him carved up. You know where the pieces are now?”

The hope that brightens King’s face when I start talking disappears. “I’ve no idea.”

Nothing. I add it to the pile of nothing I already had on Seb and move on. “The fire at my house. Tell me about it.”

“A favor to my Italian associates,” he says, and his tone suggests he’d wave a hand in dismissal if he could actually move his hands.

“You were there,” I say.

“Ah. Yes. I was.” King looks away from me to give Caligula an apologetic smile. “I wanted Mr. Orsini to understand that keeping you had consequences.”

“But you risked the ring,” Caligula says. “It could have burned with me.”

King’s smile changes. Not much. Just enough to suggest he sees another avenue. “There were inquiries about it, certainly. But nothing had been agreed. Teaching Mr. Orsini a lesson was more pressing.”

“Inquiries from whom?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a name.”

“Why not?”

“Because there wasn’t one.” I lean closer, and he keeps going hurriedly. “A proxy. Some brainless thug. All he would say was that he represented an Italian faction.”

“And what did you tell him?” Caligula asks.

“I extended an invitation to his employer, offered him a place at your auction. But the man who came as my guest was merely another representative, a businessman of some kind—an accountant, perhaps. He gave a false name. I checked it afterward. But he left early, anyway. The bids were too rich for his blood, I suppose.”

Caligula makes him give the name, which means nothing to any of us. King’s description of the guest isn’t much better: an older white guy in a decent suit, but not a man with the kind of wealth his patrons usually have. Someone he wouldn’t ordinarily have looked at twice.

“Did he tell you why his employer wanted the ring?” Caligula asks.

“No. He was very careful about what he told me.” King pulls against the ties, then stops when I look at him. “I assumed it was some dispute with your Family. It wasn’t my concern.”

Caligula turns the ouroboros once around his finger.

“If we’re finished with that,” King says, “I believe I have something rather more useful to offer.”

I already know what it is. “Big Gee.”

“Indeed.”

It’s supposed to be a trade. But it’s not a good one.

“We don’t need you to find him,” Fontana says, sliding the notebook he’s been scribbling in into his back pocket. “We’ll take care of him in time.”

King turns that polished smile on Caligula. “Don Clemenza. You understand what I’m worth to my people. Alive, I have immeasurable value. Leverage. Influence. I could broker peace between my people and yours. We could wipe the slate clean.”

Caligula leans forward, fixing him with eyes that are a dark amber in this light. “Oh, no, Mr. King. The slate will always be very, very dirty.”

“I’ve given you everything you need to make a reasonable decision.”

“You’re assuming I’m a reasonable man, Mr. King. But I must be honest: I don’t forgive my enemies.”

King turns to Fontana, who is already putting his coat back on. “Mr. Fontana,” he says loudly. There’s a note of urgency in his voice now. “Your Don—he, at least, understands the value of peace.”

“Don Morelli is a patient man, King. But you brought him to the end of that patience. Congratulations, I guess.” Fontana looks at me. “Orsini—a word?”

I follow him to the door. “Well,” he says, pulling out the warehouse keys, “I’m done cleaning up Clemenza messes for another evening.”