straight, the same black as the hair, silky and shiny like mink. “Don’t like it?”
Stefano balled his fist around his napkin and tossed it on the plate as he stood. He couldn’t be this close to the man. Couldn’t just listen to the teasing.
Not teasing. Flirting.
Fucking faggot was flirting with him. He still felt those black eyes staring at his back as he retreated. To save face, he headed for the toilets and washed his hands, staring at soap suds traveling the whole length of the caramel-colored marble basin.
He checked his cell phone, but what emails he had he could deal with later. No text messages. He typed a quick Thinking of you to Donata. For whatever reason, she considered regular text messages better proof of his love than big flower arrangements or jewelry. But who understood women?
The door opened, and for a moment he half-expected, half-feared to see Spadaro, but it was just one of the regular guys. He shook his head, examined himself in the mirror, plucked off a speck of imaginary dust and knew he wouldn’t have fooled anybody. God damn it. What was it about Spadaro that flustered him like that? Was it that he’d killed Carbone, the closest thing to a psychopath Stefano had ever met? Or that Stefano could very easily imagine Falchi being affectionate with Spadaro? Could imagine them kiss. Yes, maybe that was it. And Spadaro was flaunting it. Flaunting his influence and how dangerous he was.
When the other guy emerged from the stalls, Stefano tore himself away from the mirror and left the bathroom. His phone vibrated on the way out.
I like hearing that :-) , Donata had texted.
Stefano smiled and slid the phone back into his inner jacket pocket, then went directly to the kitchen, where Luigi was just tucking into a folded flatbread with cheese and ham. The consigliere chewed with obvious pleasure.
Stefano smiled when Luigi raised his eyebrows. “I just needed a moment away.”
“It’s the waiting,” Luigi said, brown eyes clever and understanding. “I find waiting harder to bear in a group.”
“Yeah.” Stefano leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “If there’s anything I can help with . . .”
Luigi shrugged. “ Il resto è nelle mani di Dio . The priest was here yesterday. Do you want some of that?” He pointed to more bread and cheese and ham on the steel counter. “Came in from Bologna this morning.”
“Sure, why not.”
Luigi waved him off when he tried to cut himself some ham, and calmly made the sandwich for him, just like one you could buy for two or three euros all over Bologna. No cheaper, better food anywhere in Italy.
“Thank you,” Stefano said. And because the question was gnawing at him, he asked, “Do you know why Gianbattista hasn’t come over?”
“For all intents and purposes, he’s sent his second. Spadaro isn’t just a killer, you know.”
“What is he?” Stefano asked.
Luigi smiled. “Legally speaking, he’s Battista’s heir. People say he regards him as his son. Others. . .”
“Others?” Hopefully he’d hit the exact note between interested and not too eager.
“Gianbattista and Silvio’s father, Paolo, were close friends back in the day. There’s nothing strange about Gianbattista playing uncle and godfather to Silvio.”
Yeah, right. And why are you covering Falchi’s ass? “Were friends?”
“Paolo retired—ostensibly to bring up three children. There was talk, though, that he might not have kept all his secrets. Which, if you know Paolo, is nonsense.”
A breach of omertà , even alleged, should have seen Paolo very dead. More disturbing—why had Falchi adopted the son of a possible pentito ? Stefano shook his head. “That’s quite a story.”
Luigi finished off his food. “Don’t worry about Spadaro too much. Gianbattista is no longer active. He won’t get involved.”
Stefano smiled and concentrated on his food. He had a lot more questions, and his east coast mafia history was too patchy to make
Stefano balled his fist around his napkin and tossed it on the plate as he stood. He couldn’t be this close to the man. Couldn’t just listen to the teasing.
Not teasing. Flirting.
Fucking faggot was flirting with him. He still felt those black eyes staring at his back as he retreated. To save face, he headed for the toilets and washed his hands, staring at soap suds traveling the whole length of the caramel-colored marble basin.
He checked his cell phone, but what emails he had he could deal with later. No text messages. He typed a quick Thinking of you to Donata. For whatever reason, she considered regular text messages better proof of his love than big flower arrangements or jewelry. But who understood women?
The door opened, and for a moment he half-expected, half-feared to see Spadaro, but it was just one of the regular guys. He shook his head, examined himself in the mirror, plucked off a speck of imaginary dust and knew he wouldn’t have fooled anybody. God damn it. What was it about Spadaro that flustered him like that? Was it that he’d killed Carbone, the closest thing to a psychopath Stefano had ever met? Or that Stefano could very easily imagine Falchi being affectionate with Spadaro? Could imagine them kiss. Yes, maybe that was it. And Spadaro was flaunting it. Flaunting his influence and how dangerous he was.
When the other guy emerged from the stalls, Stefano tore himself away from the mirror and left the bathroom. His phone vibrated on the way out.
I like hearing that :-) , Donata had texted.
Stefano smiled and slid the phone back into his inner jacket pocket, then went directly to the kitchen, where Luigi was just tucking into a folded flatbread with cheese and ham. The consigliere chewed with obvious pleasure.
Stefano smiled when Luigi raised his eyebrows. “I just needed a moment away.”
“It’s the waiting,” Luigi said, brown eyes clever and understanding. “I find waiting harder to bear in a group.”
“Yeah.” Stefano leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “If there’s anything I can help with . . .”
Luigi shrugged. “ Il resto è nelle mani di Dio . The priest was here yesterday. Do you want some of that?” He pointed to more bread and cheese and ham on the steel counter. “Came in from Bologna this morning.”
“Sure, why not.”
Luigi waved him off when he tried to cut himself some ham, and calmly made the sandwich for him, just like one you could buy for two or three euros all over Bologna. No cheaper, better food anywhere in Italy.
“Thank you,” Stefano said. And because the question was gnawing at him, he asked, “Do you know why Gianbattista hasn’t come over?”
“For all intents and purposes, he’s sent his second. Spadaro isn’t just a killer, you know.”
“What is he?” Stefano asked.
Luigi smiled. “Legally speaking, he’s Battista’s heir. People say he regards him as his son. Others. . .”
“Others?” Hopefully he’d hit the exact note between interested and not too eager.
“Gianbattista and Silvio’s father, Paolo, were close friends back in the day. There’s nothing strange about Gianbattista playing uncle and godfather to Silvio.”
Yeah, right. And why are you covering Falchi’s ass? “Were friends?”
“Paolo retired—ostensibly to bring up three children. There was talk, though, that he might not have kept all his secrets. Which, if you know Paolo, is nonsense.”
A breach of omertà , even alleged, should have seen Paolo very dead. More disturbing—why had Falchi adopted the son of a possible pentito ? Stefano shook his head. “That’s quite a story.”
Luigi finished off his food. “Don’t worry about Spadaro too much. Gianbattista is no longer active. He won’t get involved.”
Stefano smiled and concentrated on his food. He had a lot more questions, and his east coast mafia history was too patchy to make
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