Page 83 of City Of Thieves
Killing the engine, I exit the car and follow a broken sidewalk toward the house, letting the freezing rain numb the small sliver of conscience Tatiana has resurrected in me. Nothing about the place screams sin. It’s a red-brick, unassuming, single-family residence owned by our consigliere’s sister-in-law.
Blank facade.
Empty and untraceable.
By the time I reach the door, the black shirt and jeans I’d changed into forty-one-thousand feet above the Atlantic are drenched, my hair is plastered to my head, and my razor-thin layer of restraint is close to breaking point. I don’t knock because it’s my goddamn ceremony. Instead, I turn the handle and walk right in.
Four heads snap toward me, followed by the barrels of four loaded guns.
“Nice to see you, too,” I say, pausing at the threshold.
The inside of the house isn’t much different than the outside. The furniture is sparse. There’s a wooden table in the middle of the room, with an uncorked bottle of Chianti, six crystal glasses, a fifth gun, and a switchblade resting in the center.
There are six chairs, and four are already occupied by the major players of the Marchesi family. My father is sitting at the head, with Uncle Sal to his left…In Nero’s seat.Next to Sal is Paulie, with Anton Altieri, my father’s confidante and consigliere situated on his opposite side of him like a fucking bookend.
It’s the two empty seats on his right that catch my attention: mine and the one next to that, where Sal issupposedto be sitting.
My father lowers his gun, then raises his hand in a silent command. I hold each of their gazes in turn as they holster their weapons, pausing on Sal for the longest.
“Lorenzo.” My father gives me a curt nod. “You’re late.”
Closing the door behind me, I offer my one-word explanation, “Traffic.”
Paulie stares at my face, then cocks a bushy black eyebrow. “Jesus, Renzo...” He tugs the lit cigar from his lips. “Did you get hit by a bus?”
“Close.” Ignoring Sal’s heated stare, I make my way across the living room to the table. “Is nobody going to offer me a drink?”
“You can have one after the ceremony.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Sal hold up his index finger, pointing to the blood trickling down to his palm. “In my honor.”
Over my dead body.
Resting one palm over the white prayer card in front of him, my father stares at me with an unreadable expression. Although there’s not a wrinkle on his designer black suit, his tanned face is creased with lines that weren’t there a few days ago. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m here to take what’s mine, and then I’llatonefor past sins.” Holding his gaze, I drag the word out, urging him to catch its silent meaning…
I know everything.
“You can wipe your ass with that apology, Lorenzo,” Sal says, drumming his fingers against the table. “You had three months to step up, and you failed. Now it’s my turn. This ismyfucking ceremony.”
My father’s head snaps to his left. “Check yourself,amico,” he says, sharply. “I’m the boss of this family, so it’smine. I call the shots, not you.”
Sal bares his teeth, his feet hitting the floor as he shoves his bloody finger at the prayer card underneath my father’s hand. “It’s too late, Gianni. My blood is already staining the card.”
In response to his outburst, my father opens his clenched fist, revealing a silver lighter in the center of his palm. He casually flicks the lid, igniting a bright yellow flame. “Until the card is lit and passed, nothing is official. Renzo is next in line for underboss, and as you can see”—pausing, he motions the flame toward me—“he arrived before anything burned.”
“This is bullshit!” Turning his ire further down the table, Sal glares at Anton. “Do something.”
“Gianni’s right,” Anton notes. “A sliced finger doesn’t give you a right to anything but a Band-aid.” Sal curses his mother in Italian as Paulie bites back a laugh. “Underboss is still open.”
My uncle’s fury carves a promise of retaliation into his face.
Sal may be a traitorous bastard, but he’s not stupid. He knows I was in London. He knows I’m close to figuring shit out. With Vasily’s decapitated body pulled out of the Hudson early this morning, he’s grasping at straws.
“Renzo.” My father commands my attention while tucking the lighter back in his fist. “Are you here to officially claim the position of the underboss of this family?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Then let’s begin. Salvatore,move.”
