Page 9 of The Beast Who Broke Me
“Cal, if he’s hurt you?—”
“He hasn’t.”
D’Amato’s brows pull together. “You’re lying,” he says. “Perhaps because you’re more afraid of me than of him. But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”
I stand straight, taking my hand off the chair completely. “I am not afraid of you, Don Morelli. And I am not lying. Damiano Orsini is the only man in this city who has demonstrably protected me from an attempted assassination. You were at the opera that night yourself, weren’t you?”
He lets a few beats pass before he says, “If he’s protecting you, then why were you running away from his house in the middle of the night, with nothing but a backpack stuffed with clothes and food?”
Well, shit. He has me there. Nothing I say will convince him, so it doesn’t matter what I say. “I felt like a night walk. I took some snacks and some extra layers, because it’s unseasonably cold at the moment.”
He sighs again. “Alright. Have it your way. Do you know who this killer is?”
“No. But you don’t need to worry about it. That’s my problem, not yours.”
The blue eyes sweep over me once more. “You’re a puzzle to me, Cal,” he says at last. “You weren’t involved in your Family’s business. Never got made, did you?”
He means I’ve never killed someone. And that’s true. I’ve never ended a life. To become a full member of the Family, I would have had to do that. I always knew it would happen sooner or later; Nonno Lou started making noise about it when I turned fourteen. Dad protected me when I was younger, told him it could wait until after college. And then everything went to shit.
But I remember what Damiano said to me the other night, when he was trying to needle me. That my grandfather would have been proud of me if he’d known me better.
I’m a venomous little viper, I told Orsini.
And it’s true.
Luca D’Amato is still waiting for a reply.
“I have a right to the Clemenza Family,” I tell him. “I’m next in line. So…I’m the Boss.”
D’Amato doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile, though I expected him to ridicule my claim. “As I said, you’re something of an enigma. Even more so now that we’ve had this conversation. So tell me: what kind of man are you, Caligula Clemenza?”
“The kind who fights for his Family. Just like you.”
“Then that makes you a potential enemy. Do you want to be my enemy, Cal? Do you understand what it would mean?”
“It’s you who doesn’t understand,” I say. “I don’t have any other choice. I was born a Clemenza. The Family is my birthright, whether I like it or not. Perhaps that’s not somethingyoucan comprehend, since you were born a D’Amato and not a Morelli. You don’t understand the power that a name, aheritage, can really have.”
Ouch. I think I hit on something there, because his eyes get even colder, if that’s possible. But from behind me in the warehouse, a loud, wild laugh echoes off the metal shelving. I whirl around as a slow clapping follows, and a pink-haired man strolls out from between the shipping containers.
“Well, aren’t you a little firecracker,” Finch D’Amato says from several feet away. “It’s true, my husband didn’t inherit wealth and power. Hetookthem. But if you want to make the kind of distinction you’re making, I guess you can say Luca married into the Family, since Iama Morelli by birth.”
It’s an open secret now among the Families that Finch D’Amato—born Howard Fincher Donovan the Third—was actually the old Morelli Don’s lovechild with the wife of a Boston Irishmobster. Finch walks to join his husband, not bothering to skirt wide around me.
He wants me to know he doesn’t consider me a threat. And I’m not, am I? I talk a big game, but it’s all hot air. I might as well be a child with a paper crown on my head insisting that I’m a king.
“I was nice enough to instruct my personal assistant to let you into Kismet a few weeks ago, Cal, and now here you are being rude to my beloved husband,” Finch goes on. “Do you think that’s wise?” He reaches Luca and slots into his side like a matching puzzle piece.
“I’m not being rude,” I counter. “I’m stating facts. And as for you, you don’t seem to knowwhatyour name is. Donovan? D’Amato? Now you want to claim Morelli?”
“Watch your tone,” Luca D’Amato says sharply. “You speak to my husband like that again, I’ll?—”
“It’s alright, Luca,” Finch says, putting a hand on D’Amato’s arm. “Talking smack is just our new friend’s love language. Am I right?” He grins at me. “And hell, if I can’t take it, I shouldn’t dish it out. Now—” He looks expectantly at his husband. “What are we doing? Is Cal coming home with us?”
“Cominghomewith you?” I splutter.
“He’s not a stray dog, angel,” D’Amato says.
“He certainly isn’t,” Finch agrees. “Stray dogs are grateful when you feed them. This one bites.”
