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“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks me as he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the house.
“What’s to know?” I ask bravely. “We’re just making the rounds. You know the addresses. The men know we’re coming. It’ll be a snap.”
“This is craziness,” Stan mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. I don’t answer. Muccis don’t show weakness. Still, I reach into my bag and finger the small pistol that’s concealed there, comforted by the solidness of it.
I’m no idiot. I know this situation is basically unique in the history of the Cleveland mafia. The knowledge that I’ll be in friendly territory, solidly in Mucci turf, is the one thing that’s reassuring me.
This is no sweat,I tell myself.It’s textbook. I’m just filling in for my father. No biggie.
And for the most part, everything goes off just fine. A couple of the men we stop to see don’t bother to hide that they’re bothered by the transaction, but Stan is a pro. He backs me like he would my father, and his silent but strong presence keeps anyone from making one too many wisecracks about handing their crew’s cut over to Skip’s daughter.
Still, at the end of the close to four and a half hours we spend driving around through our part of Cleveland, I’m exhausted from keeping up my tough-girl, no-time-for-nonsense attitude. I’m more than ready to go back to the Mucci compound and call it a day. But I can’t help but do a little victory lap as Stan drives me home. “See, what’d I tell you? Easy peasy,” I tell him, sinking back against the leather seat.
“You did good,” he admits. “But I gotta tell you, Sera. This ain’t good for the Mucci name. You’re tough as nails, I know. But this is still a man’s game. Having a woman out on the street representing your father ain’t gonna work. It’s gonna be seen as a sign of weakness. Carmine needs to get back here, pronto. People are starting to talk.”
Much as I want to argue with him, I realize he’s right. It’s one thing for me to want to take over for my father, but having me do it when he hasn’t been seen since the incident at his mansion is probably the worst way to do that.Shit.I don’t know why it never really occurred to me like that until now. My stomach sinks, the feeling of success ebbing away from me like water down the drain.
“What are they saying, Stan?” I ask, knowing I’m opening a floodgate I might not want to face.
“They’re saying the Mucci crew ain’t as strong as it used to be. And that ain’t good. Especially what with all the other unrest out there on the street.”
“What other unrest?” Suddenly, I feel supremely ignorant.
“There’s some shit brewing between the D’Agostino Crew and the Vincenzi crew. Potentially a war that could be breaking out. Basically, the last thing that the Boss wants to see happen. The Cleveland crime family doesn’t need that shit, especially when the Boss is working hard as he can to restorela famigliato its former glory, know what I mean?”
Trouble between the D’Agostino crew and the Vincenzi crew? This is the first I’m hearing about that.
“Like as not, your father wanted to marry you off now because of the problems,” Stan continues. “Feuds are the perfect time for arranged marriages.”
I remember Daddy trying to get me to accept Giovanni Vincenzi, before the party. If all this is true, I can’t help but feel a little betrayed that he hasn’t talked to me about it. But maybe even more that Antony hasn’t mentioned it.
Should I feel this way? Should I have expected the Mucci capo or the soon-to-be D’Agostino capo to confide in me regarding mafia politics?
Maybe not. But it leaves me feeling unsettled.
I look out the window, trying to sort out my thoughts. We’re almost back to the Mucci compound. “Stan, do you have any theories about who made the attempt on my father’s life?”
He’s silent for a moment. “I dunno. But I figure, it was more of a warning shot than a real attempt.”
“Really?” I sit up in my seat. “How so?”
“Well, look at it like this. If someone wanted to kill Carmine, doing it on his property is a bad way to do it. There’s plenty of easier ways. Places he’d be more vulnerable.”
“More vulnerable than home, where he feels safe?”
“A capo never feels safe, doll. Witness how Carmine was wearing that vest. That’s what being a good capo is: never letting your guard down. Even with people who say they’re your friends.”
“If it was a warning shot, what were they trying to warn him about?”
“Beats me. But they were trying to get him to do something. To react in some certain way. Question is whether they got their wish.”
I want to ask him more, but we’ve arrived at the house. Stan gets out of the car and opens the door for me. The conversation is over.
Back inside, I immediately head to my father’s office and start to pace, mulling over everything he said on the ride home. Warning shot? By whom? For what reason? My mind starts to spin with possibilities. Soon, I feel as though I’m starting to suffocate. I have to get out of this airless room.
I follow the back hallway out to the terraced patio, to the pool area. There’s no one around, thankfully. I wander outside for a while, but even the normally spacious grounds feel confining. There’s no relief out here, either. Frustrated, I turn back and go inside.
I’m so focused on Stan’s words, that I’m not really paying attention to where I’m going, until I find myself in the living room. It’s the first time I’ve been in here since the night of the shooting. The room has been cleaned up since then, the furniture put back in its place. But in the center of the room, right in front of the largest couch, there’s a discolored spot onthe white carpet. It’s faded — evidence of someone’s attempt to clean it — but still there.
