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“Keep thinking.” Julian’s tone is low but insistent, his gaze never leaving the men before him. “Someone must know something.”
I stay vigilant. If Julian’s right, if someone in this very room wants him dead, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him. And as the men search their memories, I look for the slightest hint of guilt or fear. All I find is an identical look of wariness.
“Could it have been someone outside the Family?” Al Montanari asks at last. “All those other Families there, just the day before…seems like that should mean something.”
“Yes,” Julian agrees. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“But Julian,” Lombardo says, “even if one of us did remember a scratched face, memory is notoriously unreliable.”
“He’s right,” Rizzo says. “Memories are bullshit.”
The men are nodding now, shrugging. To them, the matter is closed.
“Alright,” Julian says, his voice steady and unwavering. “Then we won’t rely on memory. Gene. Bring me that photo album over there, the one underneath my mother’s portrait.”
Lombardo hesitates for a moment before walking over to the shelf to retrieve the album. He glances up at Caroline Castellani briefly before bringing the heavy book back to Julian’s bedside, placing it in Julian’s lap with a look of concern.
Up close, Julian’s injuries look that much worse.
“Thank you,” Julian murmurs, opening the album with deliberate care. He flips slowly through the pages, his fingers brushing over the glossy photographs like a detective sifting through evidence. “Wait here with me for a moment, would you, Gene?”
The silence in the room is punctuated only by the soft crack of turning pages.
“Here,” Julian announces, stopping on a particular page. “This is a photograph taken on the day of my mother’s funeral. All of you were there.” His eyes sweep around the room, daring them to deny it. “Gene, have a look and tell me: which of the men in this photograph has a scratch on his face?”
He points at the photo, and I lean in along with Lombardo to get a closer look. It’s a somber scene, all of the men dressed in black, faces stoic and unyielding.
Lombardo’s brow wrinkles as he studies the photograph. He shifts his glasses, opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a word, Julian looks up, his gaze locking onto Silvano Rizzo.
The accusation is clear, even without words.
And then everything happens at once.
Rizzo lunges forward, but I’m on him in an instant, my protective instinct savage enough to surprise even me. I slam a fist into his face and drive him back, throwing him down on the floor, hands around his neck.
Rizzo snarls at me, his face twisted in a mask of fury and fear. His eyes dart to Julian and I tighten my grip on his throat, keep my knees pressed hard into his biceps, the tension rippling through his muscles as he struggles to break free.
The room has erupted into chaos, men shouting and pushing one another, pointing and arguing, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before them.
“Enough!” Sandro bellows, and silence falls again. He directs his glare at Rizzo, dark and unforgiving. “You will explain yourself immediately.”
Rizzo sneers, defiance etched into every line of his face. “There’s nothing to explain, Don Castellani,” he wheezes out. “I wasn’t even at that funeral. That bastard—“ He glares at Julian. “He’s just trying to sow discord.”
“Really?” Julian interjects, his voice cold and steady despite the chaos around him. He takes out the photograph and holds it up for all to see. “It’s true that you’re not in this photo. And yes, perhaps you weren’t even there.” He pauses, letting the moment draw out. “But if that’s true, why did you just try to silence me?”
The guillotine falls. I practically hear it sever the ties of every man in this room with Rizzo. He watches the faces around him turn cold.
Turn away.
Rizzo says nothing, but his eyes are wild with desperation.
“I never said your name,” Julian goes on. “I simply asked Lombardo which of these men had a scratch on his face. The answer, of course, was: none of them. Yet you attacked me, Rizzo. Only a guilty man would do that. I’m afraid you’ve incriminated yourself.”
Rizzo tries to shake me off, but I press down tighter. “Fuck you, you fucking psycho!” he shouts at Julian.
“He’s never been officially diagnosed,you asshole,” I spit, tightening my fingers a little more.
“Get him up,” Sandro orders. I yank Rizzo into a nearby chair and stand behind him with both my hands on his shoulders, securing him in the chair.
