…and above all else…
Lorenzo clutched Adamo’s arm, his eyes pleading for answers.
“Where is Michelle?”
1
Six weeks earlier…
“So much for all that book learning. Am I right, Enzo?”
Adamo puffed on a cigar as he stalked the rooftop of his Brooklyn building. Lorenzo looked over the edge and pictured the college quad that seemed more and more like a dream with each passing day. Yes, he had his degree in hand… and a few headhunters who were after his talents when it came to economics. But now, it all seemed rigged. If both his friends and foes were making their way to the “wrong” side of the tracks, who was he to fight who he was or where he came from?
“If it’s good enough for everyone else, then why not me?” Lorenzo muttered as he worked one fingernail against the ridge of the roof, sighing as he saw a bit of stone dust breaking free and trickling down the long length to the pavement below.
“You still say it like it’s a death sentence,” Adamo said.
“Isn’t it?” Lorenzo asked. “You’re the only one left from the old days.”
He heard a sharp breath pass through Adamo’s lips as he placed a warm hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“But I am still here,” he said. “And Val isn’t complaining.”
“Because he has Cait,” Lorenzo said too quickly.
“You jealous about that?” Adamo asked.
He had to take pause as he pondered the question. It wasn’t so much the idea of Caitlin falling for his brother. The truth of the matter? She was always only a friend when they were at college together. And she needed something to cling to following her expulsion and every other harsh hand that she had been dealt.
“No,” Lorenzo finally said. “It feels like it’s right.”
“And not for you?” Adamo asked.
“I… it wasn’t part of my plan,” Lorenzo finally muttered as he stepped away from the precipice and cracked his knuckles over his head. “I was supposed to be the one to legitimize this… this thing of ours.”
Not that he had any intention of turning his back on his blood. Far from it. He wanted to pull the strings with clean hands from the other side of the fence.
But the game was already rigged against him… against them.
“Cait told me that she feels safe,” Lorenzo said. “Maybe I…. maybe that sounds good to me too.”
“Nipote, don’t you know that that’s been my life’s work?” Adamo asked of his nephew.
Lorenzo failed to answer the question and only met his uncle’s blue eyes. In some ways, it was like looking into a mirror, seeing what he would become in not too many years’ time.
“I… I do,” Lorenzo started. “I’m not trying to insult you, Uncle.”
“I’m not taking offense, Enzo,” he said. “You always have a seat at my table. But…”
Lorenzo anticipated an ultimatum. He would always have a home with Adamo. Adamo had said something similar so long ago when his own brother, Lorenzo’s father, was snatched from the world too soon. And true to his word, Adamo had held him and his brothers close in the past and present, telling him that he would do his best to keep him safe. And he had.
But…
Forced back to the current moment, Lorenzo looked to his uncle and nodded his head.
“But I have to be more careful,” Lorenzo said. “You told me that once before.”
“Enzo, you’re not that ragazzino anymore,” Adamo said. “You’re a man now. You learned to hold your breath and pick your moment. A lesson that your brothers are still trying to comprehend.”
“Maybe,” Lorenzo said. “But Val is happy. So is Frankie.”
“You can be happy, too,” Adamo said. “You don’t like the look of the rest of the world? Then just come home. I’ll find a place for you where you can make it all work.”
On the one hand, it was a concession. He was supposed to be the one to get out. Now he was seemingly back to square one.
But…
So long ago, Adamo kept him close. And safe. If anyone could repeat that magic a second time around, it was his zio.
“I… Just don’t make me work for Val,” said Lorenzo.
Adamo patted Lorenzo’s cheek. “The last thing I want is you boys going at it,” he said. “We’ll find another place for you. Somewhere that is worthy of your talents.”
Relaxing a bit as his shoulders slumped, Lorenzo tried to tell himself that coming home could be its own kind of steppingstone. There were other aspects to the business, and his collar would stay white and his hands would remain clean, to an extent. Not every associate carried a gun and bloodied his knuckles. Maybe this was the place where Lorenzo belonged most, and he nodded his head.
“I’m thinking of Driggs Avenue,” Adamo continued. “You know I have a vested interest in the last real restaurant in Brooklyn.”
“Yeah. Hanging on by a thread,” Lorenzo said.
“Think you should use it to get started,” he said. “Maybe we can be legitimate yet.”
The label passed through his lips with a tone of wistfulness, because a part of Adamo wanted to get his hands clean. But the dirty tang of organized crime had a way of seeping into the pores, and Lorenzo suddenly realized that he was meant to be here. Maybe he had sent Caitlin into Val’s orbit to bring him to this moment.
“I like the sound of it,” Lorenzo said. “Now what? Will you make me the manager?”
“Well…”
Lorenzo stood up straighter as he watched his uncle turn away and examine his nails. “You won’t?” Lorenzo asked. “Then what?”
Why drag him so far from the edge only to pull the rug out from under his feet? Lorenzo felt his face turn red, so he took a deep breath and was ready to stand strong. He wanted respect and—
“You’re in charge, kid,” Adamo said. “So just calm down.”
Okay. Okay. Things were still turning in the right direction, and Lorenzo was nothing if not full of ideas. A broader menu could entice the hipsters. But a dash of old school here and there could bring Adamo’s friends and rivals back into the fold. Once everyone felt secure to the point where they could lick their fingers clean, it was only a matter of time until Adamo made his move to take back control.
And Lorenzo didn’t have to ever fire a gun.
“I won’t let you down, Zio,” Lorenzo promised.
“I know you won’t,” Adamo said. “But you’ll have to make nice with the chef.”
“I… sure,” Lorenzo said. “Fine cuisine is like a secret weapon, no?”
“Finest for miles,” Adamo said. “I’ll arrange for you two to meet.”
“Thank you,” Lorenzo said solemnly.
He hugged his uncle before taking the several flights down to the street with a lightness in his step. This was something that Adamo would never trust his brothers with; it was far too important. He treated himself to a latte and pictured the chef. Men like that were always a bit too fragile for their own good, always wailing about the quality of the provisions and claiming that they could not go one day without fresh fish. But Lorenzo would be strong. He would remind the man behind the apron that he had to work with what he had and keep the plates looking perfect. An artist had nothing on a Parisi. He laughed again, feeling confident as he finished his coffee and started back to the studio apartment that he had secured on Leonard Street. Lorenzo was barely through the door when his phone dinged, and he saw a message from Adamo.