Page 22 of The Beast Who Broke Me
I get back home just before two to find the Clemenza sitting in the great room in front of a roaring fire, like he owns the damn place. “How was work, honey?” he asks.
The whole house reeks of turkey and herbs and pie, and I know I’m not getting out of this dinner. I’m just not sure why the hell the Clemenza is so determined to play this game.
“Everything’s set out in the formal dining room,” he says. “Stairs or elevator, Dami?”
It’s tempting to get him into that elevator and down to the basement again. I could keep him in there and torture him over a few days, enjoy myself before the Morellis found out anything.
But there’s still the rest of the household to consider. I can’t make a move against the Clemenza until I’m satisfied they’ll be safe.
And besides, the last time I was inside that elevator, I was also insidehim. That greedy little bitch didn’t even want me pulling out to make our way upstairs. My traitor dick gives a twitch at the memory. Somehow things have gotten all tangled up inside me, so it doesn’t matter whether I’m thinking about fucking him or killing him, I get excited either way.
Grisha Andropov must have felt similar, to get off on watching his enemy humiliated sexually, right up until I snapped his neck.
There’s a lesson there for me, too. Caligula Clemenza is always working a con.
“Stairs,” I snap, when it becomes clear he’s not going to make another move until I make a decision. I follow him up the staircase, and he even pauses to look over the banister on the third floor.
“I think I’d probably die from this height, too, Dami,” he says lightly, “if you’re in the mood to try again. No? Well, let’s have dinner. I can’t wait to hear what everyone’s thankful for.”
I don’t know why he’s so determined to get on my nerves. But he’s always been like this, I suppose. Just pushes and pushes until I crack. This time, though, I’m rock solid. I’ll keep control of myself until the moment it’s safe to let go.
In the dining room, Rosa has set five places with the everyday white china, candles in silver holders, and the buffet loaded with sides. Sammy and Vito are already seated, and Rosa jumps up when we enter, but Caligula waves her back.
“You just relax, Rosa. I’m sure Dami will be pleased to carve the turkey.”
With that, he makes his way to the head of the table—tomyplace—and waits.
I take the seat at the bottom. The bird, glistening and golden, sits there. And right there next to it, a huge carving knife.
He’s handing me a weapon and daring me to use it.
I pick up the knife and I look at the Clemenza across the length of the table. He’s sitting there with a small, satisfied smile, the candlelight playing over his face.
For a moment I think about plunging the blade into his heart. It’s a pleasant idea, but it’s a passing fantasy. So instead, I imagine Caligula Clemenza’s throat under the knife as I carveinto the turkey, cutting through in one stroke to the bone. The silence in the room means I can hear when I strike it, and the quiet continues as I carve it up.
Vito gets up after a few minutes and reaches over to take Rosa’s plate, and begins serving out the sides. Once he’s put enough on her plate to feed just about everyone at the table, he picks up Sammy’s plate and starts serving out the same huge portion to him.
The Clemenza doesn’t object; in fact, he hands his plate down to Vito to get his sides as well.
I focus on the bird. Rosa, when I glance at her, is staring at her plate of sides with a perplexed look. She can’t figure this out.
And once again, neither can I.
Eventually, we all begin eating. After a few minutes, the Clemenza looks up and says, “Rosa, this is delicious. It’s the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had. Thank you for making it.”
He looks like he really means it. And the way Rosa flushes with pleasure tells me she’s pleased with the compliment.
The last thing I need is my household staff getting seduced by the snake once more. “He’s right,” I say. “But everything you make is amazing.”
And then, because the Clemenza can’t let me have a single goddamn thing, he goes on: “Since it’s Thanksgiving, I’d like you to know that I’m thankful for you being here in this house, and taking care of everyone in it.”
Rosa’s attention swings back to him. So I raise my glass. “A toast. To Rosa, who puts up with an awful lot more than she should.”
Rosa’s head is swiveling so fast it’s like she’s at a tennis match. Vito and Sammy raise their glasses too, and Sammy adds a quick “Hear, hear” that makes Rosa wave him off with a pleased flutter. After we drink, the Clemenza smiles at her once more. “Rosa, what are you thankful for?”
She sets down her silverware. “I am thankful for Signor Orsini,” she says. “For the home he has given me, and the work. I’m grateful he gives me the chance to do that.”
For the first time in two days, I have a reason to smile.
