Page 139 of The Beast Who Begged Me

“Nonno Lou always preferred the second part of our motto.” He types five letters. S-W-O-R-D. Then he confirms it, and we wait as the laptop reloads the page.

A balance appears.

I read it twice, then bend closer, counting the digits. Stuccio wasn’t lying. There’s enough money on the screen to rebuild the Clemenzas several times over.

Caligula sits there looking at it without a word.

“Well,” I say at last. “That should cover a few fucking electricians.”

A little breath escapes him. Almost a laugh. Then he closes the laptop, sits back, and gives me a nod.

I open the door and call Gallo up. He spares one glance at Stuccio, then waits for Caligula’s orders. Caligula gives them quietly, putting him in charge of cleanup with the help of the other two downstairs.

Gallo leaves to fetch the others. Caligula stands when I hold out my hand, but he looks past me once more at Stuccio.

“My father trusted him,” he says.

“Yes.”

“He would have been worried about him. If it had happened the other way around. He would have tried to help.”

And I believe it. Cesario, if he was anything like his son, would have tried to help.

I take Caligula out of the study before Gallo returns with the others to collect the body. Once we’re alone in our bedroom, I draw him close, careful of the bruises beneath his clothes. His hand closes in my shirt, and I hold him.

It takes him a while to loosen his grip.

I don’t rush him.

CHAPTER 42

DAMIANO

A week later, and the world has already started to forget Daniel King’s name. New York moves on fast.

There are still loose ends to tie up, though. The FBI finally got its sit-down with me. Ten minutes in a conference room, Carlo Bianchi answering every question for me, Monica Anderson staring at my hand like she could make it talk if I wouldn’t. I was back on the street before the coffee got cool enough to drink. Whatever D’Amato pays Bianchi, it’s not enough.

Anderson might be back on my ass soon, especially now that Stuccio’s disappeared. She struck me as someone with a singular focus, and I, of all people, know obsession when I see it. But her current kink seems to be the imploding Giulianos, who are still making problems for everyone.

The thing that keeps me awake at night is Seb. I’ve spread word on the street that I’ll pay good for information, had people walking every dump site from Red Hook to the Meadowlands, and nothing. Big Gee wanted his older, better brother completely obliterated.

I haven’t given up looking, though. I never will.

Today’s a different loose end: Nick Fontana promised a source who might know the hitman hired to kill my father. But when he pulls up in front of some retiree club in Queens, I’m doubtful.

“The Boccalone Italian Social Club?” I say incredulously, reading the plaque out front.

“Trust me,” Fontana says. “And make sure you show some respect, eh?”

“Hold up,” I say, before I open the door to let Caligula out of the back seat. “Is this a good idea?”

“No one here’s gonna kill you,” Fontana sighs. “They’re well past that. Wait till you see it—old enemies playing cards together like the bad old days never happened.”

I let Caligula out, and Fontana glances his way.

“But word’s out about you, Cal,” he admits. “So if you don’t want to get stared at like a zoo animal…” He trails off.

“I doubt they’ll even recognize me,” Caligula says with a shrug.