Page 112 of The Carnage We Keep

Carmine’s like me: focused, strong-minded, a little intense at times, and, well, you know…the whole psychopath thing.

Vito, meanwhile, is straight out of central casting, and would probably do well with stand-up comedy.

The guy is a fucking hoot, without even trying.

Case in point: it’s late October, we’re on the coast about forty feet from the ocean, and it’s like fifty degrees. I’m wearing dark pants, a charcoal henley, and a heavy blue and gray Knightsblood Privateers Hockey hoodie.

Vito’s in bathrobe, slippers, and a fucking Speedo.

I wish I was joking.

He’s the best, though. He’s funny. He’s loud. He loves good food and wine and his family, and could happily spend every waking hour golfing badly, tanning, smoking cigars, and listening to Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, and Frank Sinatra.

He’s also a genuinely good, decent guy.

He manages to perfectly walk the line between being a fan of the ladies and not being a creep about it. Way back, when Dad, Uncle Nico and Aunt Bianca were kids, Vito ran an old-school New York strip club called Lickity Splits.

But the women who worked for him were never prospective girlfriends or “good times”. They were family. Their safety and comfort came first, period. You could be sitting across from Vito with a deal worth ten million dollars on the table. But if you creeped on or disrespected one of his dancers, you were getting thrown out on your ass. Simple as that.

“Nonno, you wanna at least put a on jacket?”

He snorts, glancing up at the afternoon sky. “What? Sun’s still out, kid.” He grins, opening his robe with a flourish to show off his bronzed eighty-five-year-old body with a chuckle.

I grin as I watch him walk over to the patio bar next to the pool that looks out over the Long Island Sound.

“Beer?”

I shrug. “Why not. Thanks.”

He tosses me a Peroni and then cracks one for himself before he walks back to where Frank is sprawled on his back, tongue out, ice-blue Husky eyes gleaming, enormous balls fully on display.

“You believe in reincarnation, Dame?”

I cock a brow. “Aren’t you Catholic?”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s always good to hedge your bets. You’ll still see me at mass every Sunday. But don’t think I’m not throwing some love to Buddhism and Mohammad too. I mean, why not.” He glances over at me. “Well? Do you?”

Having been around death more times than I can remember…and having been the cause of a lot of that death…this is obviously an idea that’s crossed my mind once or twice.

I take a sip of my beer, then shake my head. “I don’t think anything happens when you die, no. You just…stop existing.”

Vito’s forehead wrinkles. “Shit. Talk about fuckin’ bleak, kid. Well, I do believe in it.” He takes a puff of his cigar and points the lit end at Frank as the dog rolls back into a sitting position and gives us a derpy look with his tongue hanging out. “I mean, look at him!” Vito grins. “I seriously think I got him.”

Confusion tugs my brow. “Got who?”

“Sinatra!” He beams, nodding at the dog. “Frank!”

Frank immediately perks up and wiggles his butt hopefully, expecting treats.

“Just look at him!” Vito continues excitedly. “That’s ole’ Mickey Blue Eyes!”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Nonno, Sinatra died in 1998.”

“And?”

“And this Frank is only six months old.” I shrug. “I kind of thought reincarnation happened a little faster than that.”

Vito snorts and waves a dismissive hand. “Hey, we’re talking about the king of cool, kid. Sinatra always arrived when he wanted. If he decided to wait a few decades to come back, that’s his prerogative.” He grins as he fishes in his robe pocket and yanks out a dog treat. “Isn’t that right, boy?” he says excitedly, stooping down as Frank gallops over to snatch the treat out of his hand.