Voices moved through the halls, coming closer. Dane snapped up, holding the shotgun, the.38 within easy reach, stuffed in his belt.
The smart move was to take out the muscle first, the guys with the guns, but Dane just didn't see it happening that way. The Don was the only one left who wanted to end it with some honor, meeting the void with his head up.
Dane had always held a fierce respect for him, but now he just wanted to hug the man, draw him close, and perhaps say a few of the things he'd never been able to say to his own father. Maybe because he owned the neighborhood, or because he'd been instrumental in providing Dane's small world with at least one beautiful thing.
But he also felt a mild but crude hatred. For having given up so easily on centuries-old traditions of order and command. For degenerating what should've been a class act. For letting down his guard. For keeping Maria from true love.
“Thank you, John.”
Dane stepped up, drew his.38, and put a bullet into the center of Don Monticelli's peaceful face.
It only took ten seconds for a couple of interchangeable thugs to appear. They let out hisses of fear and confusion but didn't yank any weapons. They glared with open mouths, unsure of what the hell else to do.
These fuckin' kids, they all needed a lesson.
Georgie Delmare walked in, his bland eyes showing only a little more emotion than usual, but not enough to shake his perfect composure. Big Tommy moved down the corridor to stand beside him. Big's perpetual sneer had vanished, his lips welded together like scraps of tin. They both stared at him, disregarding the Don slumped in his seat.
“What about Vinny?” Tommy asked, and his voice damn near broke.
“He wanted to prove to me he wasn't afraid of dying.”
“So?”
“So he wasn't.”
Sgt. John Danetello's son was taking over the Monti crime organization because he was bored and needed something to do. Because already there were plenty of scores to settle.
“I'm going to need your help,” Dane told them. “First thing we do is dry up the drug trade into Hollywood through the company once run by Glory Bishop's husband.”
“What's his name?” the consigliere asked. He'd seen his masters dead in their chairs and beds before, and he'd survived them all. He served whoever was at the top of the heap at any given hour.
“I still don't goddamn know. But the feds are all over it. We're going to sell plenty, just not through Hollywood. There's a crew in Williamsburg we can put to use.”
Fuck Cogan and his little wars in Central America. Dane was going to start his payback with that son of a bitch.
“You bringing in the mulignan?” Big asked.
“They're already in. We're just going to take some of their pie. Hollywood is wide-open for other things. I think we'll front a few independent film makers.”
Georgie Delmare grinned with interest, his thoughts moving fast. “Who?”
Dane remembered all the stacks of shitty scripts on the floor beside Glory Bishop's bed. The one where the serial killer runs across the river and doesn't get wet. Lots of topless broads capering around. “I don't know yet, give me some time. But start setting money aside. And get a list of the best-looking whores and strippers on the payroll.”
“There aren't many.”
“Yeah, yeah, because you're so legit now, I know.”
Big Tommy glanced over at the Don, looking contented there in his seat. “You really taking over, Johnny?”
You could only do what's given you to do. Dane thought about his grandmother's dream. About how Dane didn't get chased out of the village, but wound up running it.
Here we are, doing what we're meant to do. “Yeah.”
“You're not even a made guy.”
“That doesn't carry the weight it used to. You people held true for about a thousand years, but the last fifty have gone all to hell. I killed four people today. I think that qualifies me.”
“Not even close,” Big told him, hitching up his shoulders and getting some bravura back. “You did Berto?”
“It was sort of an accident.”
“The other families won't accept you, Johnny. Even this crew here.”
“That doesn't matter.” He glanced at the toughs, who he'd never be able to distinguish apart. “If they want to make a run at me, let them. You're welcome to try too.”
Dane tightened, holding the shotgun in one hand, setting himself. He shifted so he could swing on Big and take his head off with no trouble.
Big Tommy Bartone wasn't an idiot though, not anymore. “You want to live like that, Johnny? Never relaxed? Always on your toes?”
You could do worse. Dane thought about his life up to this point and how he'd walked through so much of it without giving a damn about anything. Like Vinny said, they'd already met death and gotten tangled in the veil. “It's something to do.”
Delmare said, “The police will be here soon asking questions about everything that's happened today. You need a cover story for why you're not at home.”
“Call the Marriott in Mount Laurel. I'll hole up there for a few days, then come back. I'll tell the investigators I had to hide for fear of retribution.”
“Who do we say whacked Roberto?” Tommy asked.
Delmare liked using his mind, letting his instincts run. “Joey Fresco. Joey did it all. He had bad debts catching up to him. He used to visit the Ventimiglia casinos a lot and owed them at least twenty large. We say he was a traitor who went to work destroying our organization from the inside.” Delmare gestured with his chin toward the Don. “He did this. And Berto. He also murdered Vinny. We lay it all at his feet, and we implicate the Venimiglia family in doing so.” Staring into Dane's eyes now. “You were Vinny's best friend. Joey Fresco knew you'd come after him, so he tried to ice you in your grandmother's house. But you were faster and killed him.”
“Actually, she did.”
“Holy fuck,” Big Tommy said. “I gotta meet this lady.”
Dane asked, “Does this place have a large kitchen?”
“What?”
“Is there a lot of room to move in the kitchen?”
“The hell are you doing talking about the kitchen for?”
“Just answer me.”
“Yeah, it's huge.”
“Good, my grandmother will like it.”
He imagined Grandma Lucia moving into the mansion, settling in upstairs, an old-world cafone peasant woman surrounded by all this wealth. So long as Dane had the strength to keep it all.
He'd get Pepe over here to act as his capo, help sharpen up these poor examples of la cosa nostra. Who knew, maybe even Fran, with all that awful hate inside her, could be put to good use. If not, then he'd have to kill her. He didn't want somebody like that walking around anywhere near him in this town.
Delmare stared over Dane's shoulder. Dane turned and looked down the corridor.
And there she was.
Maria Monticelli.
With her insanely black hair coiling and twining to frame her dark and eternal eyes, the luscious angles of her body shown off to perfection. Her blouse open one button too far. The hem of her burgundy skirt caught over her knee to give an enticing view of what he'd dreamed about most of his life. If this wasn't love, it was the next best thing.
This is what you've always wanted.
She moved from the bottom of the staircase, looked at her murdered daddy in the chair. She said nothing, but took another step closer. He breathed her in. His chest was constricted with the insane excitement of being so close to her again.
Of course you would murder men for her. You'd have to be crazy not to.
He drew the bloodstained box from his pocket and opened it, held the diamond ring out to her.
“What's this?” she said. “You… you're asking me…? You-?”
“Yeah.”
Those lips, drawing him in, as if he'd traveled a thousand miles but somehow the journey got easier with each step. Leading him to stand before her. The funny guy who wasn't so tough.