Page 37 of The Beast Who Begged Me

He drops his head, a simultaneous acknowledgment, bow, and deference. “And Astoria?”

“I’ll keep Astoria.” I have no choice but to keep it. Strike is already holding it. Half the city probably already knows. And so I’m forced to swallow the gift, and that, more than anything, is what infuriates me.

He nods once, soldier-style, and I hate it.

“You’ll contact Strike today,” I go on. “Tell him to organize the Family, anyone willing to swear to me. It’s time they made their vows to me.” I stop and look at him. Watch the comprehension dawning.

“You found the ring?”

“D’Amato returned it to me. Yesterday.”

I go to the drawer and take it out, because there’s no point hiding it now. The ouroboros lies in my palm, ruby head, diamond eyes, the snake swallowing its own tail the way this Family always has.

Dami looks at the ring, then at me. “Yesterday,” he says.

“He took it off my grandfather’s body. He gave it back because, in his words, an indebted Clemenza Family serves his purpose.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were out murdering fourteen men in Queens. There wasn’t exactly a window.”

And that’s true. It’s completely true, but I see it feels, to him, like I was punishing him by withholding the information.

There’s something I want to tell him. Something like: look at us, look what happens the second we stop working together. We both fall apart.

But I stay silent.

Eventually, he says, “I’ll call Ferraro.”

It’s only after he leaves the room that I realize I’m naked. I’ve been pacing around the room, making proclamations like an asshole, while mine was just about on display.

I didn’t even think about it. It feels normal to be stripped bare in front of Dami. What kills me is that he didn’t glance below my chin once. Not once. He kept his eyes up and to the side the whole time.

He only allowed himself to look at me when I was safely unconscious.

Breakfast is another performance.

The kitchen is warm and smells of coffee and frying sage, and the D’Amatos are both in attendance this morning. Finch is draped over the end of the table in a silk robe, wearing sunglasses indoors, nursing one of Rosa’s espressos. Luca sits beside him in Armani, reading the paper.

“Morning,” Finch croaks. He looks Dami and me over and rallies for one limp swing. “God. You two look revoltingly healthy.” Then he subsides back into his cup.

“Sit, sit,” Rosa commands, and we sit, side by side, and I hope nobody in the room can tell how stiff we are with each other.

Rosa bustles over with two plates, piled high. That’s when I see the pot.

It’s on the back burner, and out of place in this kitchen where all the gadgets are sparkling new, so it takes me a moment to place it. Because it belongs to a kitchen that doesn’t exist anymore. Rosa’s pot, the one she swatted my hand away from the first time I met her.

It’s simmering something, steam rising off it.

“Signor Orsini brought it back to me,” Rosa says. She’s caught me staring. Her voice is bright, so that’s how I know she’s close to tears. She hurries back to the stove. “The fire took everything else. But not this.”

Dami is staring out at the courtyard beyond the kitchen.

Vito crosses to the sink, and on his way, he puts a hand on Rosa’s shoulder. She leans back into it without looking, without pausing her stirring.

I look at them a beat too long. Then I force myself to eat.

“Busy day ahead, Cal?” Luca asks, eyes on his newspaper.