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And then there’s Vito DiPietro, current Underboss, and perhaps the most useless of them all. He’s already given up on standing and is dozing in one of the hideous antique replica chairs my father, Ciro, insisted on stuffing into Redwood.
Jack walks in last, heading straight for Rizzo with a glare. But he catches sight of me, and I give his hat a little twirl on my finger and watch his feet swerve toward me. I enjoy the look on his face when I hand it back to him: surprise, then understanding.
“You’re not supposed to interfere unless directly ordered,” he says in a low voice.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say innocently.
“Uh-huh.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a knife.Myknife. The one from last night. “For your collection,” he says, with no inflection at all.
“Thank you.” I take it, study it. Jack has cleaned it to a spotless shine. “Perfect for throwing. Don’t you think?”
Jack pauses, then says, almost unwillingly, “Sandro’s been worried about you. Where’ve you been?”
I smile at the thought. My big brother, worried about me? Unlikely. He’s been worried about what I’mdoing, perhaps. We may have reached an uneasy truce, but unease is the main identifying trait. “I had a tail. I’ve been trying to chop it off.”
“Why were you there?”
At the docks, he means. “I wanted to speak to a certain Bernardi Capo. He was at Redwood the day before my mother was murdered, all those years ago. I wanted to know whatheknew. Unfortunately, he’s beyond even my interrogation skills now.”
Jack opens his mouth, pauses, and sighs instead. “Well, I’m sorry about that, Julian. But I had my orders, and Brunello had it coming.” He gives me a brief nod before going off to give Rizzo a piece of his mind.
I can tell Jack is impressed with me, though, impressed with my help last night, and that’s all I need. I like impressing people. It amuses me.
And so we all stand around, waiting for the Boss to arrive.
I smell my brother before I see him.
Sandro has such a distinctive scent—a heady combination of expensive cologne and, very faintly, sexual desire. I told him that once. He didn’t like it.
But tonight I can tell immediately that he’s come to this meeting from the bed of his lover. Around Teddy MacCallum, I’ve seen Sandro smiling once or twice, but right now his eyes are hard, harder when they land on me. I incline my head slightly and he looks away again.
He stands tall and imposing in a tailored black suit, his gaze taking in the whole room with the air of an emperor considering his subjects. He knows what went down at the docks, and he’s not happy about it, that much is clear. The glare he sends toward Rizzo makes the man go even paler.
I grin to myself, and when Rizzo catches my eye, I grin wider.
“Move,” Sandro growls to the room at large, turning on his heel. “We have much to discuss.”
We all follow him down to Ciro’s study. It’s Sandro’s study now, I suppose, and I like to come in here from time to time and trace out the stains of my father’s lifeblood on the desktop. It gives me a nice little tingle.
I don’t take a place among the circle around the desk. I sit in the bay window instead, listening with half an ear as Sandro outlines the tasks that need to be taken care of this coming week. I don’t care much for the details—I’m more interested in the big picture—but I stay focused enough to know what my role is.
I’m a Castellani, after all. That means following the Don’s orders. But tonight, Sandro is particularly exercised about the snafu at the docks.
“I want to know who fucked up,” he says, even though he already knows.
Everyone looks away from Rizzo, who stares back at Sandro like a deer in the headlights. I snort with amusement, and Sandro’s head swivels towards me.
“You have something to add?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “I was just admiring the view.”
Sandro gives me a piercing look, starts to say something to me, but then decides against it and moves on. And poor Rizzo—Sandro has moved on to him.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he asks. He sounds calm. He’s not. We can all tell; we can all see the pulse beating away in his temple. “You knew what the plan was. Why didn’t you follow it?”
Rizzo stammers an excuse, and Sandro cuts him off. His voice is ice, and I can’t help but love him a little more for it.
Love—is that the right word? So many people have told me I don’t understand love, and perhaps they’re right. I’m very fond of Sandro, though, if that counts for anything.
