Page 52 of The Beast Who Begged Me

He knew Cesario for years, worked for Lou for years, and apparently never heard a goddamn thing. I look at Caligula, who holds up a finger before I tell Stuccio what I think of that.

“Then I’ll have to ask someone else. Where is my mother?”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, Uncle Tony. Larissa Clemenza. I assume you remember her.”

“Of course I remember her. But I haven’t spoken to her in⁠—”

“You have one hour to find a current contact number for her. Send it to this phone, and I won’t have to come to your office.”

“Cal, these things can take⁠—”

“An hour,” Caligula repeats, and ends the call. He leaves his hand resting beside the phone for a moment before looking at me. “Well. That wasn’t illuminating.”

“He didn’t tell us shit.”

“No,” he agrees. “But we do seem to have improved his willingness to answer the telephone.”

The number arrives forty minutes later. Stuccio’s message says Larissa is on vacation in New York, which makes Caligula sit up straighter.

“New York?” I echo. “And she didn’t get in touch with you?” I watch him carefully as I say it, and that’s the only reason I see the minute flinch he gives.

“My mother and I are not what you’d call close,” is the only answer I get, clipped and cold. He dials the number; it’s a hotel. Eventually he’s put through to her room.

“Caligula? Is that you?” Her voice is bright enough to carry across the room even before he puts her on speaker. “What a lovely surprise.”

She speaks Italian, but he refuses to. “I could say the same, Mama. You’re in New York?”

“Only for a little while. I’ve been meaning to see you.”

“Then have dinner with me tonight.”

“Tonight? Darling, that’s rather sudden.”

“So is finding out you’re here.” Caligula glances at me before continuing. “One dinner, Mama. I haven’t seen you in years. It will be good to catch up.”

“Yes,” she says without enthusiasm. “It will be good.”

Vito drops us at the restaurant and waits with the car while we’re shown to a table near the terrace doors. Larissa Clemenza is already there, turning her wineglass by the stem. She’s platinum-haired and she has brown eyes rather than Caligula’s amber. She’s a beautiful woman in that European way, a lot of lipstick and perfume. She rises from her seat to kiss Caligula on both cheeks. “You’re so thin!” she exclaims, holding him at arm’s length to inspect him. “You must take better care of yourself.”

“Things have been difficult lately.”

“Yes, I heard. How dreadful for you.” She touches his cheek once, then sits down and gestures for us to join her.

I pull out Caligula’s chair before the waiter can get to it, making sure it’s the most easily defensible one at the table. He gives me a brief look as he sits, and I let my hand rest on his shoulder while I take in the room, looking for danger. It’s clear, so I take the seat beside him.

Dinner proceeds. Larissa has plenty to say about Italy, the hotel, and how difficult it was to find a decent flight. Every question Caligula asks reminds her of something else she wants to complain about. By the time the first course plates are cleared, I know more about her fucking luggage than I do about what the hell she’s doing in the city.

“And why are you in New York?” I ask finally, trying hard to sound polite. “Work or pleasure?”

“I thought it would be pleasure,” she says mournfully. “But next year I shall go to Monaco as usual for Christmas. My sister suggested we come to New York this year. She wanted to see her son.”

“Tiberius?”

“That’s right.” She looks away. “Where is that waiter? We need more wine.”

“Mama,” Caligula says firmly. “There’s something I need to ask you.”