glass again. “No.”
He stared at me, but in a different way this time. It was like he was thinking before he spoke. Usually the words just rolled off his tongue, each and every word perfectly executed.
“I will tell the aunts you enjoyed their food,” he said, nodding to the plate. “Amadeo had them create the menu.” He fixed his suit. “It was good to see you, Alcina. If you ever need me, you know how to find me.”
The glass fell out of my hands, clattering to the plate, the remaining water, lemon, and ice spilling onto the gorgeous arrangement. A piece of glass had fallen into my lap. I hissed when I picked it up and it cut my finger. Blood ran down, but I did not even bother to clean it up when Mari stepped back into the room.
She eyed me uneasily, like she was unsure.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.
She nodded to my hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“Fuck the blood.” I hit the table. “Amadeo owns this restaurant. The man Corrado has been looking for.”
She sighed and took a seat. She refused to look at the cut on my hand. Her face was pale. “He does. He owns this place. The Club, too.”
“He’s Vittorio Scarpone.” It came to me then. The last time I had probably heard his real name was when I was a child. We had always called him Amadeo for as long as I could remember. Anna used to joke that he was so important that he did not need a last name.
“Correct,” Mari said. “It’s…funny how that works out. You’re looking right at something, all signs pointing, but you don’t see. Not until it’s meant to make sense.”
“That means…” The tightness in my throat was a warning that my food was about to come back up.
“That means.” She sighed again. “Vittorio killed my mom and my dad—or that man, as I call him. Corrado Palermo was his name. But Vittorio saved me and then hid me.”
“Mio Dio.” I made the sign of the cross, reaching in my pocket for my rosary, bringing it out.
Her breathing picked up when she saw it. It was as if she was looking at a ghost, or something she had seen before, and it made her anxious.
“Vittorio,” I whispered, clutching the beads. “His throat.”
She nodded. “Arturo—that other man—did that to him because he refused to kill me.”
“If you are Corrado Palermo’s daughter…” I could not even finish.
Mari nodded. “That’s right. Corrado—your Corrado—is my brother. Uncle Tito told me. He thought I had a right to know. It’s been tense between him and Amadeo ever since.”
My heart pumped so hard that the blood gushed out of my finger. “We need to talk,” I said.
“Desperately.” She lifted a finger. “But first. You need to cover that up. I don’t feel so well.” Then she passed out.
30
Corrado
It didn’t matter what time of the day I went to Macchiavello’s, or how late I showed up at The Club, that Machiavellian motherfucker always seemed ready for me.
I’d get the best table in either place.
I was used to that, but when he did it, I knew he did it to fuck with me.
The music pounded in The Club. The lights swirled. Every night was ladies’ night. There were five women for every guy. I’d already identified a few men in my family with their goomahs. It was no surprise. It had some of the best alcohol in the city and some of the most expensive talent on the stage.
However. I set my cup of Amaro down, my eyes rising to the second floor, where I knew he was watching me. Even though he reserved the best tables on this level for me, he never invited me into the hidden world he created above.
This time I didn’t come to wait for Mac Macchiavello to make an appearance. I came because I wanted to meet with Rocco Fausti.
It usually took a while to arrange a meeting with one of them, but since he requested a meeting with my wife, alone, I knew he was in town.
I set my glass down harder than intended.
Calcedonio looked at me but said nothing. Nunzio took the bottle and poured himself another glass. He came instead of Adriano, who had vertigo and kept running into walls when he moved too fast. There was no such thing as a sick day in this life, but what good was a man who’d shoot left when he had to shoot right?
From my visits, I’d learned that