Page 64 of The Mad Don
I stand. I button my jacket.
“Think it over. Let me know.” I let the smile return. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I stand to pass him.
He lifts his cup, finds it empty, and sets it back down. Then he stands, and he is at my height.
“How could I resist such a deal?”
He puts out his hand.
“Che questi affari siano piacevoli,” he says in Italian.May this partnership be pleasurable.
The Italian is rough in his mouth; it’s a courtesy and a small flex at once.
I take his hand. His grip is dry.
“Sì,” I answer.
Chapter Seventeen
Fabiano
The gate opens, and the car passes through. I have been at the window for the last forty minutes. The yard is dim, and the lamps along the drive throw small yellow circles into the darkness.
The car comes up the drive’s curve and stops in front of the steps. I leave the window and go to the entry hall, reaching for the door before anyone else does. I open it as he is climbing out of the driver’s seat.
I bow my head a bit. He sees me, and the smirk is already there, half-formed, as if he has been wearing it since.
“I was worried, Don. You were out all day. You didn’t take any men.”
He pats my shoulder as he passes. He smells of whiskey.
“Fabiano.” His voice is loose at the edges. “Sei la mia balia adesso?You are not my babysitter. I can have some fun,sì?”
I keep my face still.
“Don, we must be careful.”
He waves me off without turning. He sways a little as he goes up the first step. He catches the banister and laughs at himself. I stay at the foot of the steps and watch his back.
He does not get drunk, not since I have known him. He drinks at functions with men he wants to read, and the glass never quite empties. I have seen him pretend for hours and walk out of a room steadier than the men he was pretending with.
Why is today an exception? I follow him to the stairs.
“Don.”
He pauses with his hand on the rail. He turns slowly, and the smirk is still on his face, but his eyes have come into focus.
“Did you let the Russian girl attend to the Lady personally?”
“Do I need to ask permission for what happens in my own home, Fabiano?”
“No, Don. Of course not. But the Lady is sick. The Russian woman has her own ideas. I do not think it is —”
“I can manage my own affairs.”
His voice has dropped, but a slur is still in it.
