Page 59 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I seem to have finally won him over, because he sighs and says, “What kind of gossip?”

“Did you hear any whispers about a hitman hired to kill Vincent Orsini? Or any talk about my father taking the blame to cover for someone else?” But Rossi is shaking his head. “Any talk about my grandfather’s involvement?”

“Sorry, Cal,” he says, and he really does sound sorry. “I wish I could help. I just never had much to do with—” He breaks off.

“What is it?” Dami asks urgently.

He wants to know just as badly as I do. And I hope he won’t be disappointed again. “Please, sir,” I add, as Rossi looks—once again—troubled.

“It was just gossip,” he says slowly. “So I’d caution you against taking it too seriously. But back in the day, your grandfather—” He pauses again. “I don’t wanna speak ill of the dead.”

“That’s the beauty of the dead,” I say impatiently. “They can’t hear you.”

His smile this time is wry. “Even so,” he says. “And in any case, Don Clemenza, there are more important things going on right now. Territorial disputes, for example.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s saying what I think he’s saying.

He just smiles back.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want to keep that Brooklyn block Don Morelli was so quick to pass over to you. It’s paying well this year, and it took a long time to get it there. We put in the work. It’d be a gesture of goodwill to insist that we keep it.”

“It’s one block,” I say. “How valuable can it be?”

“You know, Alexander the Great was younger than you when he became king. He was only twenty. But he’d conquered the known world only a decade later.”

“Are you comparing me to Alexander the Great, sir? Because I can assure you⁠—”

“I’m just saying I don’t want to give away something for nothing.”

“Fine. You can keep the block. Now tell me⁠—”

“Let’s shake on it first,” he says, extending a hand.

I shake.

“You witnessed it,” Rossi says to Dami.

“I did,” he says. “Now tell Don Clemenza what he wants to know.”

“Okay.” He holds up a warning finger. “But you gotta promise you won’t get mad, Orsini.”

I glance at Dami, who shrugs. “You have my word.”

“Stop stalling, sir,” I say, reaching the end of my rope, “and tell us what we want to know.”

“It’s not much. But here it is. Back when the Families were shuffling around, rearranging territorial borders—a little like recent times—some people played dirty. Your grandfather was one of them,” he says, looking at me. “Lou was always an asshole, but there came a time when even Carmine Vicario’d had enough. Told him to quit putting unapproved hits out on made men, stop shaking things up, you know? After that, Lou made sure his wet work wasn’t so easy to trace back to him.”

“Who’d he use?” Dami asks. “Freelancers?”

“Sometimes. But the thing is, your Families—” He flicks a finger between us. “They were always close. Close enough to do each other favors, if you know what I’m saying. Now, I’m not saying that’s what happened,” he adds as Dami’s face darkens. “I’m just saying it was common knowledge at the time. Lou Clemenza would give a guy a dirty look, and a few days later he’d disappear, only none of the Clemenzas were anywhere nearby at the time. But maybe a Giuliano was.”

“Give me a name,” Dami demands.

For the first time, Rossi looks less than convivial. “You wanna remember who you’re talking to, Orsini.”

“Sir,” I say quickly, “this is his father we’re talking about. He means no disrespect—we’re just very anxious to find out the truth.”