Page 4 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“Cut out that ‘Uncle Tony’ bullshit,” he mutters. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you see the news last night? Louie was murdered.”
“Keep your voice down,” he says sharply, then leans in close. “Where are you staying?”
“Here and there,” I say, because there’s no way I’m going to confide in a potential FBI informant. “Why don’t we have lunch, and we can?—”
“Whatever courtesies I might have extended to you and your Family previously, they were done under duress. And that’s what I told the FBI and the DEA and the ATF and all the rest of them when they dropped by. Do you understand me?”
I do understand him. Just like the rest of New York, he’s turned his back on the Clemenzas. This man, who once claimed he loved me like a son, doesn’t care if I live or die.
In fact, it would be more convenient for him if Ididdie.
“I understand completely,” I tell him, still with that genial smile on my face. “In fact, Uncle Tony, the only reason I came by was to thank you for your friendship. I hope one day to pay you back for it.”
Stuccio takes a step back. “Get out of here and don’t come back.”
“You have yourself a great life, Uncle Tony. What’s left of it, anyway.”
He goes a satisfying shade of puce. I turn and nod a polite goodbye to the receptionist before making my way to the elevators. I’m pretty proud of myself. I don’t even start shaking until I hit the street again, and then, hopefully, it’s from rage, not fear.
Because it was an empty threat. Grandstanding bullshit. The Clemenzas are done and dusted, and someone out there is making sure the line goes totally extinct.
But even at my lowest, I won’t show fear. And I swear to God Iwillfind a way to pay Tony Stuccio back for his cowardice and disloyalty. To do that, I need to make sure I stay alive myself. Stay far, far away from that Giuliano and his hungry, burning, unforgettable eyes.
Unforgettable? Jesus. I need to get it together.
I need aplan. I needmoney. I need someone in this city who still owes me a favor, or at least someone dumb enough to get involved for the thrill of it…
And I think I know where to find them.
CHAPTER 2
CALIGULA
If I’m goingto have any chance at this last play, I need to get behind a velvet rope. Which means I need tolookthe part. And right now my clothes stink of mildew and desperation-sweat.
So I head to Bergdorf Goodman, charge a new outfit to Uncle Tony’s company account, and take great pleasure in signing my name ostentatiously on the bill.
Stuccio will pay. He won’t like it, will make sure I can never do it again, but he’ll pay, if only to keep things quiet. And I want “Uncle Tony” to see that he can’t sever that Clemenza connection as easily as he’d like, even if he rolls over for the Feds.
While I wait for my new purchases to be tailored to old measurements, I slip into the bathroom and try to nap in one of the stalls, which is about as glamorous as it sounds. But I need a clear head, because tonight really is my last shot.
If it doesn’t work, I might as well cut my own throat instead of waiting for that Giuliano to do it.
The line at Kismet snakes down the block, stylish twenty-somethings huddled against the cold, their outfits more suited for Instagram than insulation. It’s the most popular gay club in Manhattan, so my target should be here tonight. But I stop dead at the corner when I catch my reflection in a darkened window.
Whoisthat?
Thin cheeks. Too-long hair. The new clothes were tailored, but I’ve lost weight since last time I shopped there, and I couldn’t risk letting them take new measurements. So my outfit hangs a little too loose, hinting at the frame I used to fill out. I look like a ghost wearing a living person’s wardrobe.
But the blood of emperors doesn’t thin easily, even when the empire has fallen. I tell myself that my sunken cheeks just make my high cheekbones look sharper, more mature. I comb my fingers through my hair, mess it around on purpose. There—now it suggests “bed head” instead of “vagrant.”
The Tom Ford herringbone coat I picked out today does most of the heavy lifting as far as image goes. Underneath: black jeans, a black button-down, Hugo Boss boots. I spent a limited time enjoying New York’s nightlife a few years back, but I still remember the unspoken dress code. Black is best, and appearancealwaysmatters, especially when you’re faking everything else.
Instead of joining the line, I stroll directly to the head of it, where a slim, well-dressed man with sandy hair stands with anelectronic tablet, flanked by security. His eyes sweep over me before I even reach him.
I don’t speak when I approach. Don’t name-drop. Don’t even ask if he’ll let me in. I just make eye contact and wait for him to speak first.
