Before I could get to him, I overheard Bruno talking to one of the other busboys. He was talking about how he couldn’t wait for someone to take “Mac” out. He hoped Stone would do it.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He froze. A second or two later, he turned around slowly, facing me.
“You’re fired,” I said. “Gossiping about my husband’s business is not tolerated. You signed the agreement when you started working here. Get your shit and go.”
“Fired?” he repeated.
I opened my eyes wide, trying to press the point. “Do you need a dictionary?”
His face turned a mean shade of red. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it as soon as Stone came close to us. Bruno turned and left, and after, a few of the kitchen staff applauded softly.
Stone took me by the arm after the kitchen drama and led me outside. I protested, but it was no use. He said that he refused to speak inside of the restaurant. Why? Then I worried about Achille rounding the corner, seeing me. He couldn’t kill me in front of a detective, could he? I guess that depends on if Stone is in his pocket, I thought cynically.
“You could’ve let me grab my coat!” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to ward off the cold. It was like going from one side of hell to another in the span of a second. “What’s this about?”
“Where’s Keely?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “If it’s Keely you want, go find her. It’s freezing out here!”
“What do you know about Cashel Kelly?”
“Besides his name? Nothing.” I held up a hand. “Honest.”
He watched my face for any signs of dishonesty for a minute. Maybe looking for a tell? I stuck my hands in my pockets, not wanting to fidget.
“It seems like you girls keep a lot of secrets from each other. I thought ya’ll were friends.”
“You’re right. We’re not. We’re sisters.”
“Well, that makes more sense. Sisters don’t always get along as well as friends.”
“Is this visit about Keely?” Smoke purled out of my mouth.
“Yes and no.” He watched me again, this time with his hands on his hips. He had a coat on. Gloves. A hat. Maybe he thought if he made me stand out in the cold I’d break sooner. “Do you girls always go for the bad boys you’ll never be able to change?”
“That sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, Detective Stone.”
“I’m a little late on the congratulations, Mrs. Macchiavello. I heard you married Mac Macchiavello, one of the richest men in New York. He’s a man whose face is rarely seen. He glides just under the lines.”
“No need to wish me well in my marriage. You hardly know me. And again, nonsense. I’m out here freezing my ass off for nonsense.”
“What do you know about the Scarpone family, Mrs. Macchiavello?”
“At this moment? One of them is sitting inside of the restaurant. Having dinner.”
“His name is Achille Scarpone. He’s Arturo Scarpone’s youngest son.”
“I assume the other guy that was in there with Achille a few minutes ago is Arturo’s—”
“Grandson,” Stone answered for me. “Achille Scarpone has four sons. Well. Had. You remember Armino Scarpone?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s presumed dead.” He let that hang in the air between us.
“So…?”
“So. It seems like ever since you hooked up with Mac Macchiavello, everyone who has threatened you in some way has disappeared.”
“Like who?” I lied.
He lifted his pointer finger. “Quillon Zamboni. Strangled.” He lifted his middle finger, which was suitable for the next name. “Merv Johnson. Beat beyond recognition.” He lifted his ring finger. “Armino Scarpone. Still missing.”
“Let me refresh your memory, Detective Stone. I met Armino maybe three times. He knew I was home the day he killed Sierra. He’s a Scarpone. He might not be dead, if he’s just missing—after all, he killed a girl and all signs point to him. So what does he have to do with me?”
“Forget Armino. What about the other two?”
“I don’t associate with Quillon Zamboni.”
“Wrong. He fostered you.”
“And that means what, exactly? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Where did you go after you ran from his house, Mari? What made you run?”
“Do I need my lawyer, Detective?”
He smiled. “This is a private visit.”
“Then let’s get on with it.” I really started to tremble. And it wasn’t only from the cold.
“Arturo Scarpone has one son now, but he had two.”
“We’ve already went over—”
“You seem to know who Achille is, but do you know his oldest son?”
I shook my head, holding my arms closer to my chest. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“No.” His voice was low. “You wouldn’t. He’s presumed dead. Vittorio Lupo Scarpone. The case was never truly solved. Rumor has it that he was dumped into the Hudson, on a night like this one, cement blocks around his legs. But he was already dead. Someone cut his throat.
“It’s been rumored that the King of New York—that’s Arturo—had his own son killed. And Achille, the next in line to the infamous Scarpone throne, was only too eager to see his older brother—they called him the Pretty Boy Prince—dead. They call Achille the Joker. You ever hear of a joker passing up the opportunity to be king?” He paused for a second. “Nah, I didn’t think so.
“Arturo, they say, killed his son because he didn’t kill the child of a mortal enemy. Last name Palermo. First name Corrado. Apparently, the Prince found some scruples. He was against killing kids, even the kid of his father’s enemy. Little Marietta hasn’t been found either. That’s Palermo’s kid.”
“W-w-what does t-t-his h-h-have to do with m-m-me?” My teeth started to clack and my bones trembled. Suddenly, so many pieces clicked into place, and I was terrified that Stone would see the truth on my face. I was thankful that the temperature had dropped, the wind sharper, and the dress was thin.
He shrugged. “Thought you should know the kind of people your husband entertains in his place of business.”
“He a-a-also entertains t-t-the F-F-Faustis.”
“Even worse. Luca Fausti killed my aunt and her unborn child. Drunk driving. They, unlike the Prince, have no scruples.”
“How about a-a-actors and a-a-actresses? M-m-musicians? World f-f-famous artists? Are those b-b-better?”
“Not by much.”
“T-t-there is n-n-no p-p-p-pleasing you.” I took a step closer to him. With the same clacking, I asked, “Who is Cashel Kelly, and why do you care if he’s with Keely or not?”
At first I thought he hadn’t understood my question. My teeth chattered so hard my speech was almost unintelligible. But after a second, I felt it, too. Another presence. Wearing all black, he seemed like a detached part of the night taking shape, appearing behind us. My husband’s blue eyes seemed to emerge from the darkness, making the resemblance to the wolf on his hand identical.