Page 63 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I pace around, annoyed at how long this whole thing is taking, and at one point my bad hand catches against a chair arm. The pain gives me something else to worry about for a second. Then I think back to Caligula’s townhouse, where the top floors still need another coat of paint throughout, and the electricians are making me want to commit a few more murders.

I could’ve told Caligula how close it was to completion. But then I’d have had to watch him step around fucking drop cloths while I explained everything that wasn’t finished.

I’m not doing that. When he walks into that house, every goddamn thing will be perfect. His home, as he remembers it, brought back to life, with a few small additions to make it even better.

Behind the door, chairs scrape over the floor, followed by a swell of voices as everyone starts talking at once.

Apparently, we’ve got ourselves a Don.

Ferraro comes out first, carrying a plate with the remains of the bread and a bottle of olive oil. He looks so pleased with himself that I have to resist the urge to trip him up. He makes a show of ignoring me as he sets the leftovers on the counter beneath the mirror, then heads straight back toward the room, already calling to someone.

My eyes stay on the oil. The last time they laid out bread and oil in preparation for all this, I ended up fucking Caligula over the back of a broken-down couch.

I have the urge to do it again now. Take him, here on the disemboweled chair in front of all his men.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

Then he appears in the doorway, flushed from the warm room, bronze hair falling over his forehead as he listens to something Mike Giordano is saying.

He’s wearing the ring.

That was the whole fucking point of today, but seeing it on his hand still kicks me in the ribs, somehow. Don Clemenza. Officially, now, with every man in here sworn to him.

Every man except me.

He looks at me in one of the cracked mirrors and catches me staring at him. His gaze goes briefly to the bread and oil, then comes back to mine…

And the little fucker smirks.

I pick up his coat.

“Come on,” I tell him. “You can admire yourself in the car.”

“I wasn’t admiring myself.” He comes over and turns, letting me help him into his coat.

The street is busy when I look out the front door: a delivery truck double-parked farther down, people coming out of the bodega next door, some asshole leaning on his horn because another asshole won’t move.

But nobody seems interested in us.

“Straight into the car,” I tell Caligula, putting a hand on the back of his neck to steer him.

“You don’t need to⁠—”

The bodega’s door bangs open beside us. A man comes out fast, and there’s a long, evil blade in his hand.

It’s already swinging at Caligula’s throat when I grab his coat and haul him backward. He crashes into me, and the machete passes through the space where his neck just was.

“Get down!” I roar. My gun is under my coat, but my hand is full of Caligula and I’m not fucking letting go of him.

The man turns, ready to try again. He’s wearing a dark wool hat, his face set with concentration, and he doesn’t even seem to register that I’m there. His attention shifts, the blade changes direction⁠—

It’s coming down toward Caligula’s arm.

I shove my left arm between them. There’s a hard impact, but it’s my elbow into the attacker’s wrist, and the blade goes clattering.

Then Giordano hits the fucker from the side.

Men are pouring out of the barbershop, shouting, grabbing at the attacker as he tries to run. My instinct is to dive in with them, but that would mean letting go of Caligula.