Page 109 of The Beast Who Broke Me
Our Family name, Clemenza, means mercy. Clemency. Nonno Lou never showed any of that. He preferred the sword.
So I think about that as Dami goes here and there all morning. He seems to be making calls. Making plans. And he doesn’t want my help, I guess, or he’d ask for it.
I can’tforcemy anger away. But I can’t pretend it’s the only thing I feel, either.
He comes out midmorning to silently show me Sebastiano Conti’s reply, which finally came. My heart drops as soon as I see the text:Don’t leave your house. No reassurance. Not even a clear threat. And no suggestion that things will improve.
Dami walks off again and I contemplate calling Finch D’Amato, offering the information I have about Big Gee’s plans in return for their assistance. But something in me still shies away from the idea of asking my grandfather’s killer for help. I haven’t texted Finch since the night Nick Fontana came over demanding to see me.
And I’m pretty sure Luca D’Amato is very well aware of Big Gee’s plans. His intelligence network seems…extensive.
Sammy spends most of the day in his room on the phone—I know because I occasionally hear his laughter echoing from down the corridor. I’m glad for him. Things seem to be working out with Ricky Benedetti. And Rosa and Vito are extra-sweet with each other today. Once I even catch him kissing her cheek, although she flaps him away, intent on her cooking.
She seemed pleased, though.
She doesn’t seem pleased when she looks at me. And even though she doesn’t say anything, even though she’s perfectly polite, there’s a stiffness there.
Dami is in pain, and she blames me for it. I wonder what she’d say if I told her the full story. But of course, that would have to include whatIdid, along with what Dami did.
He appears again in the kitchen halfway through lunch. Rosa stands out of habit at Dami’s entrance, but he waves a hand at her to sit down without even looking her way.
“Caligula. Come with me,” he says.
Sammy, Vito, and Rosa are all eating at the small table. I’m sitting at the counter with an espresso that Rosa made for me without my asking.
I set down my coffee and slide off the stool. He leads me to the front door, to the scanner panel set into the wall. I watch him enter an administrator code, and then he turns to take my hand.
I suck in a breath as his hand closes around my wrist. But he just positions my index finger on the glass panel.
His hands are as warm as ever. Huge. The pads of his fingers are firm against my wrist as he presses my fingerprint flat. He holds it there for a beat while the scanner reads, and then he does the next finger, and the next, and I stand very still and focus on the blinking green light instead of onhim.
“Other hand,” he says.
I give it to him. His thumb settles over my knuckles to hold my hand steady, and his eyes are fixed on the scanner, and his breathing is even, and I’m certain—absolutely certain—that he’s as hyperaware of this small contact as I am, but is refusing to show it.
“Why?” I ask at last.
“Just in case,” he says. Then: “Come on.”
We move through the house. The side door out to the street, the garage roller door, then the internal door to the garage stairwell. I know the code, but fingerprint access is a lot faster.
He’s expecting an attack.
“Elevator next,” he says, without looking at me.
We stand side by side in front of the brass doors. My former prison is at the end of its descent. The collar, the chain, the darkness.
The fear.
Neither of us mentions any of it. The scanner reads my prints, the light goes green, and we move on.
And then Damiano leads me back upstairs and into his bedroom, to the security door that I’ve always been curious about. I know what’s behind it—or think I do.
He programs my fingerprints in and then, when I start to turn away, pulls me back. “You should see,” he says stiffly. “You should know the worst of it.”
He opens the door.
I step through.
