Page 17 of The Beast Who Broke Me
Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing him.
“Let’s go in,” I say, pulling him around the car and under the portico. Fontana is standing on the sidewalk staring up at my house, taking in the security shutters over every window and door, the reinforced frames, the cameras.
“How the fuck do yougetin?” he mutters, almost to himself.
“You don’t,” I tell him. “Unless I want you in.”
He grins. “That’s not an invitation, I take it. Still, I’ll wait here until you get inside. Boss’s orders.”
Vicente raises a hand in farewell to the Clemenza. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she says.
“Oh,” he responds blankly. “Right. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Like me, he forgot all about it. We’ve been too busy with each other over the last couple of weeks to even think about Turkey Day. And the only thing I’ll be giving thanks for this year is the opportunity to kill this fucker before I die myself.
I pull him down the few steps under the portico. Shuffles has disappeared, thankfully. The Clemenza smiles and snuggles up close. “Hurry up, Dami,” he coos. “It’s chilly.”
He’ll be colder when he’s dead. I stab my finger down on the panel and the steel door slides smoothly up, revealing the front door, which has also automatically unlocked. I push open the door. “After you,” I tell him. He waltzes in.
I turn to Fontana and raise a hand, relieved that this is almost over. “Be seeing you.”
“Better hope you don’t,” he says. “But you think about what I said, Orsini.”
I give a contemptuous smile. “Safe travels.”
The two of them get back in the car, though the look on the Morelli Underboss’s face is troubled. He can hardly demand to come in and chaperone forever, though. I watch the car drive away and breathe in the cold air, thinking about my father.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” I mutter under my breath. Christmas would be more appropriate, since I’m about to give him a gift.
I head into my house and pull the heavy door shut behind me, then hit the code for the security shutter to slam down again.
I turn to look at the Clemenza. He’s standing in front of the fireplace, holding his hands out to it, the light from the flames catching the line of his jaw and turning his hair to dark gold. For a second, I just look at him. In my house, in my foyer, warming himself at my fire. Acting like he belongs here.
I’m about to move toward him, but there are footsteps in the side hallway. A moment later, Rosa appears, and stops dead at the sight of Caligula Clemenza once more in the house.
She glances at me before letting out a quick flood of Italian and hurrying forward. “Where have you been all morning?” she scolds him. “You need to eat! You missed breakfast.”
Before I can stop her, she’s hustling him back down the corridor toward the kitchen.
I follow, tamping down the anger. He’s wriggled his way into her favor somehow, in the way of all Clemenza snakes. In the kitchen, he shrugs off his coat and she makes him sit at the counter, where she fixes him an espresso, and gets together a bagel for him like she made for Shuffles.
He wolfs it down, and I hope he’s enjoying his last meal.
That damn turkey is still sitting on the countertop in its ice container. “I thought I told you to get rid of that,” I say.
Rosa doesn’t even look at me as she says, “Sammy will take it out later.”
The Clemenza looks at the turkey in between bites. “Why would you want to get rid of it, Dami?” he asks.
I don’t reply.
He finally turns on his barstool to face me. “I think Thanksgiving dinner is a great idea. Don’t you?”
And then, with the worst timing possible, Sammy comes wandering in and pulls up hard at the sight of the Clemenza sitting there once more.
Rosa bustles over to him before he can open his mouth. “Take that bird to the local food bank,” she says.
“Huh?”
