Page 69 of Caesar DeLuca
The door pops open with Ariana appearing in front of me in a clingy red dress. But she doesn’t step aside to let me enter. Her expression is empty, devoid of any real tell-tale sign of emotion.
My eyes narrow. “Where is he?”
“I told you not to come.”
“Where the fuck is he?”
“No one else is here. I was about to go to bed. Go away.”
“Then why are you still dressed?” I ask.
She slips. The veneer she’s wearing, that she’s put on to face me, slips. Her eyes flare wider, and she glances over her shoulder as if checking for someone. I take her by surprise even more when I shoulder my way in.
A drastic measure, sure, but necessary in a moment like this. I muscle Ariana out of the way ’til she’s stumbling and I’m grabbing onto her arm.
“I’m here, Alfredo,” I say loudly. “Come out and show yourself.”
Carisi emerges from the other end of the hallway, his doughy face arranged in a wide grin. “I’m so glad you could make it, Caesar. It’s almost like a reunion of sorts between us.”
“Ariana, go upstairs,” I grit out.
“Ariana will stay right here,” he replies. “She and I were catching up.”
“She has nothing to do with you. This is between you and me, you fat fuck.”
“Actually, that’s not true, right, Ariana?”
I glance over at her and she drops her gaze to the floor. What the hell is he talking about?
“See, Ariana and I have history. She knows she’s my gal. But she ran away from me. I’m here to collect.”
“You and Carisi?” I spit in disgust.
Ariana still won’t look at me. Her expression’s solemn, her hands wrung tight. “I told you not to come.”
“I got an idea! How about the three of us have a drink and clear the air?” Carisi asks, clapping his hands together. “We’re all friends here, right?”
24
CAESAR
“See this bottle of Rosé? I gifted it to my gal,” Carisi brags, holding up the dusty, thin-necked bottle. “Isn’t that right, Ariana?”
Ariana couldn’t look like more of a hostage if she tried. Her expression is flat and taut, her posture just as tense. More sculpture than woman, if she moves the wrong way, she looks like she just might shatter into a thousand pieces.
I’m tense in a different way—my glare’s deadly and slitted, the muscles in my body wound tight like metal springs. Any second I’ll snap and give into the violent solutions filling up my head.
All of them result in the demise of Alfredo Carisi.
We’ve moved into the kitchen area where the rest of his posse are waiting. Being the greasy, doughy coward that he is, of course Carisi would have his men with him.
No wonder Ariana had been so measured over the phone.
“Arianaaa,” Carisi sings, winking at her. His obnoxious grin only spreads. “Did you hear me? Tell him about how I gifted you this expensive bottle of the finest Rosé.”
“You gave it to me,” she repeats listlessly.
“When was that?”
