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The grand salon of Redwood Manor fills with tension along with people as the inner circle arrives. Gene Lombardo, Silvano Rizzo, Vito DiPietro, Al Montanari…and all of them recoil when they see me there with Julian, who has been taken down in a special wheeled bed, propped up like a doll. He looks like a doll, too: utterly breakable. His face is black and blue and green and purple where it’s not pale as porcelain, and he has a bandage over the nose the doctor reset.
I hate seeing him this way. But I know I don’t look much better.
“Who brought this trash in?” DiPietro spits as he circles closer, glaring at me. “The enemy amongst us?”
“What the hell is Leo Bernardi doing here?” Rizzo demands from no one in particular.
“Rat,” Montanari mutters under his breath.
It’s hard to hear. The truth is, Ifeellike a rat, being here among the Castellanis. Loving one of them. Sandro is right: the way things are now, it can’t stand. I can’t have a foot in both camps.
Jack is the only one to give me a nod when he comes in. He even brings me a drink, which I take gratefully, while I watch the others with unwavering eyes. No one is getting near Julian, not while I’m here.
Jack wanders away with his drink to look at the portrait of Caroline Castellani. “If I were you all,” he says to the painting, but speaking loud enough that the men can hear him, “I’d be a little more polite to a guest of Don Castellani’s.”
“A guest of the Don?” DiPietro gives a hoarse laugh. “Bullshit. In my day, any time a Bernardi came close to the gates of Redwood, he woulda lost his head!”
“That’s not really true, is it, Vito?” Julian’s voice snakes out softly, forcing them all to be quiet so they can hear him. “There have been many times when the Bernardi Family was hosted here, under rules of guest-protection.”
DiPietro sneers, but before he can speak, Sandro appears in the doorway. Complaints rise up at once, battering his ears.
“Enough!” he snaps, silencing them. “If I trust the Bernardi Lion, that should be good enough for the rest of you.” He gazes at each of them with an intensity that warns against further objections. “Now—I called you in to discuss the Esposito situation. Unfortunately, we have a more pressing matter to deal with first.”
“More pressing than the Espositos calling a free-for-all on my men?” Rizzo growls.
Sandro gives him one look, and the man bows his head. Sandro comes into the room and takes a seat to the side, the seat I remember Ciro Castellani took during that one parley I attended with my father. “Julian,” he says. “Go ahead.”
Julian looks around at the men, letting them sweat for a second. “I’ve uncovered my mother’s killer,” he says at last.
I watch the faces around me, searching for any sign of guilt or fear. But they’re all closed-off, cautious.
Julian continues, his voice steady and unwavering. “When I was a child, I saw her murder. It’s true I’ve had some trouble unlocking more memories of that day. But now I know what happened. I know who killed her.”
“You’re asking us to trust the memory of a child?” Lombardo asks, but his voice is gentle.
“Not at all,” Julian replies. “I have definitive proof, of course. That’s why I asked Don Castellani for this chance to speak with you all. Because tonight,” Julian says with finality, “I will bring my mother’s murderer to justice.”
The shadows cast by the chandelier above us give Julian an eerie appearance, enhanced by his bruising. He’s a specter, returned from the dead, delivering doom.
“The day she was murdered,” he goes on, “I saw her killer approach her. He was dressed in a navy suit. She struck out at him and scratched his face, but she was no match for him. He called her a stupid little bitch before he held her face under the water—held it there until he was certain.”
Jesus. I feel sick.
Little bitch.
But Julian risks a glance at me.It’s alright, he seems to be saying.
But it’s not alright.
“Gene,” Julian says, shifting his gaze to the Castellani Consigliere. The ticking of a grandfather clock is audible in the quiet room, like a countdown to a bomb. “You were close to my mother. Do you remember anyone with a scratched face the day of her death, or in the days following?”
Lombardo hesitates, visibly uncomfortable at being put on the spot. “No,” he finally admits, his voice laced with sadness. “I don’t recall.”
“Anyone else?” Julian asks, scanning the faces of the inner circle. They exchange uneasy glances. But one by one, they all shake their heads in denial.
“Nothing,” DiPietro mutters, and he sounds almost disappointed. “You have nothing.”
