Page 55 of The Beast Who Broke Me
“Why can’t we do both? Maison Lumière is a very fine restaurant. They have a steak au poivre that I bet you’ll enjoy.”
“We don’t have a reservation.”
He just smiles. “We won’t need one, Dami. Now, be a good guard dog and get dressed.”
I pull on one of the Lorenzo Benedetti shirts and a pair of dress pants I’ve worn once. The Clemenza looks me over with a critical eye but doesn’t say a word.
Vito drops us at the restaurant in the Flatiron District and I fully expect to be turned away at the door. But I should have known. The moment Caligula Clemenza walks in, the maître d’ practically sprints across the floor.
“It is so good to see you again!” The French accent is thick with genuine delight. He probably sees a huge tip coming, courtesy of yours fucking truly.
“Your usual seat, of course,” he goes on.
This restaurant is the kind of place I’ve never been and was never meant to be. Candlelight everywhere, giving the place its name, crystal glasses catching the tiny flames, a hum of conversation so refined it sounds like music. The fucking silverware is heavier than my first gun.
“Same as you remember it?” I ask as we’re seated.
He looks around the room instead of at me, his eyes looking a little shiny. “My father and Nonna used to take me here sometimes,” he says at last. “I always got the crème caramel for dessert.”
“Yeah? Well maybe you wanna order dessert first, since we’ll have to bolt after we put the hard word on your uncle.”
That gets his attention back on me, cold and hard. “He’s not my uncle. He’s a traitor and a coward.”
I grin. “Can’t trust your blood. Can’t trust your friends, either. Sounds to me like you got no one left, golden boy.”
“That’s not true,” he says softly. “I haveyou, Dami.”
I’m so taken aback, I can’t think of a response, but the waiter arrives before it becomes obvious. The steak is the only thing on the menu that looks decent, so I order that, while Caligula talks to him in French, fluid and easy. And in the middle of ordering wine from the sommelier, he turns to me with that sugar-sweet voice and asks, “What do you think, Dami?”
I just shrug. “Whatever’s good.”
Because we’re not here to experience three Michelin stars. We’re here to get a lead, and this spoiled little prince can’t seem to focus on the prize.
I’m starting to feel exactly like I felt at the opera, that night I was ordered to take him there and show him off. Caligula Clemenza is in his element and I’m a pitbull someone put a bowtie on.
But there’s something different about him tonight. He’s not performing, not like he was at the opera. He’s just…relaxed. When the food comes out, I see what I missed in all the French, which is that he ordered the same thing as me. And he eats that pepper steak with genuine pleasure. I find myself watching his mouth instead of the room, and have to snap out of it. Remind myself why we’re here.
It’s close to nine when Tony Stuccio finally arrives. He’s seated across the restaurant with a woman I assume is not his wife, because she’s flirting hard, reaching over to stroke his hand now and then, smiling suggestively.
“How do you suggest we do this, Dami?” Caligula asks. “You’re the expert, after all.”
“He’s slogging down enough wine that he’ll need to piss eventually,” I say. “I’ll go check out the bathroom, make sure it’s private enough to do the job—if you can manage not to get assassinated in the next few minutes.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says acerbically.
The bathroom is down a long corridor, with a thick, heavy door that makes it practically soundproof. Perfect. On the way back, I get the attention of the waiter and give him some instructions.
Caligula is still waiting at the table, eyes on Tony Stuccio. We sit there a while, trying not to watch our mark too obviously. We don’t make small talk. I doubt there could be any such thing between us. All Caligula does is snipe or strategize. Words are his weapons, but he’s keeping them sheathed for now.
And then the server brings over a crème caramel for the Clemenza, telling him I ordered it for him. It’s almost comical how astonished Caligula looks.
But I can’t laugh, because he drops his eyes fast, trying to hide a sheen in them. He picks up the spoon, slides it into the custard, and takes a mouthful. And then he smiles, but it’s a painful smile. “Try some,” he says, offering me the spoon. I take it from him, uncomfortably aware that he thinks I’ve done something nice for him.
I just wanted to hurt him a little more. Twist the knife in his family’s absence.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself when I ordered it.
The sauce is a light gold, and it reminds me of the color of his eyes. I dig into it with his spoon, mostly just so I can taste something that’s been in his mouth. As much as I hate him, I still want him.
