on not breaking out in a cold sweat and/or puking across the cherry or mahogany or whatever kind of wood the table was.
He was sitting there, unmade, with no business whatsoever to be there, because it served Nick’s interest, in some way Alex didn’t entirely comprehend, for him to be here.
He knew what his job was. He simply didn’t know why he’d been tapped to do it.
He was sitting at a table with the dons of six families—the Paganos, the Saccos of Massachusetts, the Marconis of Connecticut, the Romanos and Piovenes of New York, and the Cuccias of Sicily. Six dons, six underbosses, six consiglieres, six other advisors to the dons, and Alex. Twenty-four men and one woman, Giada Sacco, who appeared completely recovered from the Christmas attack.
Of the Paganos, Nick had invited Donnie, Tony, Trey. And Alex.
Downstairs, West Egg, closed for the night, was packed with body men and other guards from all these families.
Nick had introduced him as one of his most fierce soldiers, intimating that Alex had been influential in the conduct of this civil war. That wasn’t remotely true, but it served well enough, apparently, as a reason he was at this table to settle any suspicious minds on the subject.
So he sat there, between Tony Cioccolanti and Adrian Romano, and shared an elegant meal with his betters, trying to watch how they ate and drank and not make a fool of himself. He wasn’t a know-nothing cretin, he knew a salad fork from a dinner fork, and not every man here was as refined as some, but nonetheless, Alex felt exposed and observed. This was big, something big was happening, and he was part of it.
If he could do what had been asked of him, he would make his bones tonight. If he couldn’t, he might get the don killed—and others, too, including himself.
After the meal was cleared away and the men and Donna Sacco sat with coffee, they began to talk business. Alex’s instructions earlier had been straightforward—keep his mouth shut, comport himself like he belonged at the table, wait for Donnie’s signal, then act—but in practice, comporting himself like he belonged at that table was not easy.
For one thing, he was not an influential soldier in this war, and most of what these men discussed was news to him. He’d had no idea the fight had been going on so long, and that men had been dying all over the globe during that time. He’d heard about the attack at New York Harbor, and the death of Don Romano’s youngest son, because those things had made national news, and the gossip mill in the warehouse had been churning double-time.
But there was so much more. The worst of it remained the Christmas Eve attack on Nick’s house, but at this table, while each don laid out his, or her, losses, Alex understood that the war had been devasting for them all.
Don Ettore Cuccia—the famous Padrino, who stood above them all—sat smugly and listened, nodding occasionally with his face arranged in the shape of paternal sympathy, but mostly seeming simply smug. He sat back in his chair with his arm on the rest and his chin resting on his hand, relaxed and entitled. It was obvious he thought he’d come to the States to hear the confessions of the other dons. He thought he’d won.
Each don took a turn, addressing Don Cuccia directly, laying out their losses. Alex noticed that they’d each couched their words in terms balanced on a fine edge between defeated and accusatory.
Nick saved himself for last. When the litany came round to him, he was quiet for a long time. A full minute, maybe, which felt like an eternity in that room at that time. He sat at the head of his own table, with Cuccia facing him at the far end, and regarded the Sicilian don with his legendary stoicism.
When he spoke, his voice seemed to crack through the room, though he hadn’t raised it. “What you’ve heard today, Ettore, is the accounting of your most recent sins against these families assembled here, from the two greatest Councils in the United States. The sins of you and your family stretch far back, through generations, but for us here, we’re focused on these things you’ve done yourself, in the time we sought nothing more than the right to shape our own families.”
Cuccia’s easy aspect of smug contentment began to lose tone when Nick used his given name. By the time Nick