Page 22 of The Beast Who Begged Me

It’s a nice feeling, to know I’ve done the right thing. Because as much as Dami hates the idea, it was the right thing to let Luca and Finch take us in like bedraggled strays.

That knowledge is confirmed for me again when we arrive at the mansion and get hustled inside to meet a smiling Finch D’Amato. The foyer houses an ornament-dripping Christmas tree tall enough to reach the wooden coffered ceilings. The whole place stinks of pine, which reminds me of the hospital disinfectant.

“I made up your room myself,” Finch tells me. “Best in the house—well, apart from mine and Luca’s, of course. And totally private. You’ll barely have to see us if you don’t want to. But I hope we can get to know each other better, Cal. I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.”

He leads us up a wide, curving staircase, past a run of photographs of Finch or his husband or both of them with some very famous and powerful people. On the landing, there’s a painted portrait of the previous Don, Tino Morelli. And there’s a large, framed, black-and-white photograph of what looks like all the senior Morelli Family members, gathered together and smiling at a restaurant, as though daring the viewer to pick them off one by one. I recognize most of them. Even D’Amato’s brother Frank is pictured, grinning through the ruins of his face.

An image like that on display in his house means that Luca D’Amato must be very comfortable with his hold on the city.

At the very end of a long second-floor hallway, Finch opens a door and gestures inside. “Here we are.”

The room is larger than Dami’s old bedroom, the kind of size that doesn’t exist in New York these days. Original plasterwork scrolls across a ceiling nine feet up. The walls are covered in robin’s-egg blue silk that reflects the light from the windows—and those windows look about four inches thick with reinforced glass. The bed is new, enormous, dressed in decadent satins, but the fireplace is period. Hand carved. The floor is a herringbone parquet, covered by a thick blue rug. There’s private bathroom attached.

I wonder where they’ve hidden the cameras.

“How inviting,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

Finch just smirks like he knows what I’m really thinking. Rosa and Vito, he tells us, have connecting suites a flight above, and Sammy has a room down the hall from theirs. “Come down to the kitchen after you’ve settled in, if you feel like it. Rosa’s really made herself at home there. I might have to poach her from you guys, actually. She made anelletti al forno last night that almost made me believe in God.”

“No chance in hell she’s staying here when we go,” Dami growls, but Finch just laughs and leaves us alone to settle in.

I sink onto the bed as soon as the door clicks shut, a wave of exhaustion hitting me. I’m fine, but I’m not fine. Not yet.

But I will be.

And in the meantime, I plan on getting to know my enemy very well indeed.

Dami’s looking closely at me. “I’ll look around later,” he says, and I know what he means. He’ll sweep the room for electronic surveillance. “Rosa already unpacked everything for us. You should sleep.”

I shake my head. “Let’s go down to the kitchen.”

When we find our way back down, Rosa is, as Finch said, busy in their kitchen. She’s wearing a new apron, a bright purple that sets off the silver of her braid, and she seems to be enjoying herself. The space is large, full of light, with a table to the side where a small group has already gathered: Finch, Vito, and a blond man with glasses, wearing a hand-knitted sweater and an eager smile.

Before we can greet them, Rosa comes right over. “You should be resting,” she scolds as she pulls me into a hug. “I will feed you until you can’t move, and then you’ll be forced to rest. Sit, sit.”

She hustles us over to the table.

“Aidan O’Leary,” the blond guy introduces himself, and I shake his hand. Ah, yes. The Morellis’ man of the cloth—without the cloth. He’s still a layman, I understand. And I’d be more trusting of him if I didn’t know he was dating one of the Morellis’ senior members, Matteo Vitali.

“Cal Clemenza,” I say in return. “And this is Damiano Orsini.”

We each take a seat. Dami says nothing, and merely glares when anyone tries to engage him in conversation. The only time he speaks is when Finch mentions that Sammy has gone out.

“What the hell?” he demands, slamming a hand down on the table. Only Aidan jumps at it. Finch just regards him with cool eyes. “Someone’s out for my people, and you let him⁠—”

“I sent one of our best men with him,” Finch breaks in. “And your Sammy was very insistent that he see Riccardo Benedetti.”

Dami scoffs. “I bet he was.”

“He’ll be fine,” Aidan says soothingly. “Teo’s with them. Teo is excellent at protection.” He pinks up a little, smiling proudly as he mentions his boyfriend.

Lunch passes in a haze of food and conversation, but I still have an agenda to fulfill. So once people start heading off to do their own thing, I turn to Finch. “I wondered if you could give me a tour of the mansion. It’s such a wonderful old place. And I know Dami would be fascinated. He’s very interested in architectural restoration.”

Dami shoots me a dirty look, but it’s hardly untrue.

Finch is already agreeing. “Of course. Why don’t we start in the conservatory?”

Finch is a perfect guide, full of bright anecdotes and fascinating history. But it’s not just a tour, it’s a reminder of the Morelli Family’s ascendancy.