Page 94 of The Beast Who Broke Me
The hands that are marked with a “G.”
Rosa works beside me in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling.
“Rosa,” I ask after a while. “Does Dami know it’s Sammy’s birthday?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her hands keep moving, smoothing the batter into a cake tin. “I don’t know,” she says. “Lunch,” she adds suddenly. “What do you want?”
“Whatever’s easiest.” I’ve finished the cherries, and now there’s nothing more for me to do. The cake has gone into the oven and Rosa’s cleaning up. “I’ll take it upstairs.”
She nods. She understands the boundaries, even if I keep testing them.
I wash my hands again, and the red stains fade but don’t disappear. Then I take the grilled sandwich Rosa makes me—ham, provolone, peppers, and a drizzle of olive oil that makes my stomach clench for reasons that havenothingto do with hunger—and I carry it up all those flights of stairs to Dami’s room.
Dami’s room.
Which is somehow also my room now.
I eat my sandwich sitting on the edge of the bed, and I let thoughts go in and out of my head as they will. I think about Tiberius and Marcello. I think about the smirk on Dami’s face when I called him “my bear.” I think about the “G” tattooed on the back of his hand.
And I wonder if I should remind Dami about Sammy’s birthday. I think it would mean a lot to Sammy for Dami to tell him happy birthday and give him a gift.
I feel guilty about what my Family did to Sammy. That’s for sure. And nothing I do—nothing—will make up for what those men who share my name did to him.
But I also know Sammy wants one thing and one thing only from Damiano: his attention.
I know because it’s what I crave myself. Even the worst of his attention, I still ache for it.
I guess Damiano was right. I’m a needy little bitch.
I look at my stained fingers as I eat. The cherry juice is still visible in the creases of my skin, the lines of my knuckles.
Some things don’t wash off.
CHAPTER 32
DAMIANO
Big Gee likesto meet in one of the Family-run strip clubs out in Brooklyn. They’re the kind of place that opens day and night, but Big Gee shuts it down for Family meetings. And in the cold light of the afternoon, it feels like the most depressing fucking place in New York.
The floor is sticky and the place smells like spilled alcohol and cheap body spray. It’s not like the strip joint is ever particularly glamorous, even during opening hours. But two hours ago, I was sitting on a silk love seat in Gramercy Park, drinking tea from fine china cups. The contrast is so stark it makes me wonder how Big Gee can stand this kind of place. He’s rolling in it, just like I am. Doing better, even.
But this is where he likes to spend his time.
I arrive at about the same time as Sebastiano Conti, who gives me an upward nod in greeting as we both approach the door together. “Any idea what the meeting’s for?” I ask him.
“No idea,” he says abruptly. He’s worried.
Inside, the room is filled with men all about our age. The old guard has gone, pushed out or blown up. After Jimmy G wentdown in Chicago, his son didn’t waste much time changing the faces that were left. He wasn’t much interested in legacy knowledge. And it’s not like anyone complained, except the old guys who got retired out. Under Big Gee, profits have tripled. I went from making bank to making the whole damn mint. When the Clemenzas collapsed, business boomed. Everyone was making money. And everything, thanks to Luca D’Amato, was stable.
I’m not sure how long that’ll last.
Because looking around this room, I smell change in the air. Everyone here is young, hungry, and looking for a fight. I was the same, up until recently. If there was one other thing I wanted in life apart from the Clemenza, it was to see the Giulianos on top.
These days…
I’m no traitor. But the more I think about Big Gee and compare him to Seb, the worse the Boss looks.
Seb glances my way, and I kill the thought out of habit. He’d make me eat my own teeth if he knew I was thinking it. And now he’s giving me the kind of look that tells me to brace myself.
