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He’s talking about the note Fyodor left with Edonismo’s hostess. At least one of Fyodor’s men did. He wants to arrange a meeting and begin peace talks.
“They started this war, and he’s never made contact. The first time he does, he wants peace.”
I keep moving my finger around the edge of the whiskey glass. I haven’t touched it yet. I haven’t drunk in years.
“You’re too suspicious. He wants to meet because he’s seen what we can do.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“You should’ve stayed last night,” Dario says after a pause, flashing a grin at me, gold tooth glinting. “We had a whale of a time.”
“It doesn’t interest me.”
“Maybe youwouldbe interested after a few drinks and dances.”
“We could take power, baby brother, because of what happened to Angelica. The whole Family talks about how I’m completely dedicated to her, a love for the ages. It’s a revenge story that fills their goddamn hearts.”
“I thoughtRosawas the poet.”
I push the whiskey glass away. “You get the point. Anyway, I don’t want to hook up with some random woman.”
“I didn’t hook up. I just danced and talked. I like female company.”
“You should find somebody,” I tell him. “You’d be happy. You don’t have the political baggage I do.”
Dario looks at me darkly. He doesn’t have to say anything. We both know what he’s thinking.
“You could make it work,” Dario presses, “once the war ends. You could find somebody. It’s been long enough.”
“What about Rosa?” I snap.
“You can’t use her as an excuse forever. She’s mature. She’d understand.”
I push my chair back, standing, my mind flashing with images of Emma from this morning, sitting with her back to me as though making a point of it. The shape of her shoulders, her curly hair, her body shifting as though her breathing was getting quicker… It was enough for now.
“All right, cut the shit.” Dario follows me to the window, the staff cleaning and preparing for opening. “What’s going on? You’re not telling me something.”
I don’t look at him. “Leave it.”
“Tell me.”
“Go bother someone else.”
He touches my arm, the only man in the Family who would dare to do that. That’s one of the reasons I love him so much.
“Tellme, Leonardo Esposito.”
“Don’t do that. You’re not Dad.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, thinking of our parents, both killed by a rival gang when I was eighteen and he was eleven. That introduced me to this life, a flash of bloody violence.
“Have you met someone?” Dario goes on.
I return to the desk and fidget with the letter opener. The whiskey suddenly seems sickening because I know what it would do to me. It would make it all seem okay, the thoughts that won’t stop clamoring in my head. I hear the pounding of children’s footsteps pitter-pattering across my chest. The visions of the future. The happiness. How do we get there? Lots of spanking, lots of owning. I didn’t even kiss her.
“Youhave,” Dario says.
“You sound like a gossiping kid.”
