I shake my head firmly and look out at the night so he can’t see my expression. But I can see it in the window. It’s exactly what I’d expect it to be: confused and yet full of desire, wanting Angelo and not wanting him, hating him and craving him at the same time.
“No,” I say finally. “He’s nobody.”
For one blissful moment, I can almost believe it.
7
Angelo
As Giuseppe calls another car, I pace up and down at the side of the road. Standing still is something I find difficult at the best of times. Right now, with the exchange with Dani still bouncing around my head, it’s impossible.
She confuses me. A fucking wild, indulgent temptation, the last thing I need right now. It feels easy to slip into rhythm with her, into the back-and-forth. Far too easy. Anything so comfortable and warm can only be a distraction. Happy things, easy things—that is what makes a man soft. That is what ruins men like me.
I do not intend to be undone by something so insignificant as a woman.
I have to remember who I am: Angelo De Maggio. Cold. Emotionless. Savage. I have killed men and I will do so again.
I turn as Giuseppe approaches, glad for the distraction. “About five minutes, boss,” he says, still looking odd.
“What is wrong with you, man?”
He flinches. Of course it’s not fair that I’m taking out my confusion on him. But his doughy eyes and general hangdog demeanor are starting to piss me off.
“It’s nothing, boss.”
I just stare at him, and then keep staring. Giuseppe and I get on well, but there’s no mistaking who’s in charge.
Finally, he sighs and says, “My wife’s in labor and there’s some complications, the doctors are telling me. I’m just a bit worried, is all.”
I blink. Then I shake my head in disbelief. “You mean your wife is in labor right now?”
He nods.
“Then why the fuck were you at the club?”
“Don Carlo wanted me to check the security, just to be on the safe side after The Albanian … after what happened with the Albanians.”
I don’t miss that, how he almost referred to it as The Albanian Fuck-Up or something similar, which most likely means, since he stopped himself, that word has spread that the baking powder fiasco was my fault. I stifle the urge to kick the car.
“Uffa! Giuseppe, when the car gets here, we are taking you to the damn hospital. Your wife needs you more than the Family does right now. If we don’t take care of those closest to us, we’re fucked.”
I don’t let myself ponder my own words, because they’re just rote, the credo that all Family men live by. The truth is that I don’t have anybody especially close to me, except for Levi, but that’s not like having a wife or a girlfriend. As far as I know, Levi will not be having babies anytime soon.
Giuseppe nods gratefully. “Thank you, boss.”
“You need to tell me things like this,” I tell him. “What if—Jesus, what if something happened and you weren’t there? Call the car. Tell whatever bastard is driving to hurry the fuck up.”
Giuseppe makes the call and then returns to me. In the meantime, I go back to pacing, glancing briefly at Dad’s text: where are you?
I don’t reply. Fuck him.
“She’ll be okay,” I offer half-heartedly. Giuseppe’s frown is getting to me.
“It’s a boy, boss,” he says. “Did I tell you that?”
“Yes. I remember. You’re going to name him Primo.”
He grins, but there’s something sad about it. “After my grandfather. Che riposi in pace. But, his middle name, we have decided to …” He frowns, seeming for a bizarre second like a nervous schoolboy.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“We’re giving him the middle name of Angelo,” he says sheepishly.
I pause, stunned. I don’t know what to do in a moment like this. It’s cringe-inducing, mushy, embarrassingly heartfelt. Caught out, I just offer him my hand. We shake, and I tell him, “Thank you, my friend. That is truly an honor.” I wonder how much I mean it.
Finally, the car arrives and we climb inside.
If another of my men pulled a move like that, naming their kid after me, I’d think they were trying to suck up. But Giuseppe isn’t like that. I haven’t known him quite as long as Levi, but he’s still a good loyal man.
I remember when he started at the same private high school that Levi and I attended, where most of the Family children attended, this giant bear who played guard and nose tackle for the football team. Most of all, I remember how, whenever a kid was being bullied, Giuseppe would just calmly step up behind the bully and put his hand on their shoulder. One look at his massive size and the apparent blankness behind his eyes, and they’d soon remember they had more pressing matters to attend to.
“Good luck,” I tell him as the car pulls up outside the hospital. “And Giuseppe, even if you’re a fucking moron for keeping this to yourself, any bills will be paid by the Family.”
“Thank you, boss.”
He touches his hand to his chest and nods, then quickly jogs into the hospital. I tap my hand on the back of the car seat and then sit back, closing my eyes as I feel the sway of the traffic. Giuseppe is a good man, but putting his loyalty to the Family at risk like that was a moronic move. If his wife died, and he was driving me to some meeting with my father, would he still want to serve us? Would he not hold a grudge for life?
I tell myself that what just happened was a business decision, nothing more. After I’ve repeated that in my head enough times, it starts to feel true.
When I finally get to the office, I’m ready to erupt at Dad. Truthfully, I’m ready to erupt at anything. But my father has earned enough of my ire to start with him.
What more could he want from me? After everything I’ve done to serve the De Maggio empire, to strengthen it—the blood I’ve shed. The bullets I’ve fired. The wounds I’ve let turn into scars. And yet, he says it is not enough. I need a woman. As if that would complete me.
The very concept is fucking absurd.
These thoughts are surging through my head as I storm down the dark hall, hurl open the door, and open my mouth to begin my tirade.
But the office is empty. My father isn’t here.
I check my phone and see another text: I am not your lapdog to wait all damn night. I have to stand perfectly still, close my eyes, and breathe for several long minutes if I am to resist the urge to toss the phone at the wall.
When I have calmed somewhat, I use my key and go into the little back section with the desk and some filing cabinets. My father has been known to lock himself away in here for hours, poring over figures and making tiny adjustments to this column or that. It’s the sort of studious work that bores me to tears and, I reflect suddenly, perhaps one of the reasons he doesn’t think I’m ready. That just makes me even angrier.
I shake my head and drop into the desk chair.
My thoughts are scattered this evening. One second, I am thinking about Giuseppe. The next second, it is Dad. The next, Dani, and now, I am wondering how the fuck my father thinks forcing a woman on me is going to make me a more capable don. Or is that even his intent? That’s the problem with us. We never talk openly about what we’re feeling.