Page 66 of The Don

“Capi,” he says. “Thank you for your time.”

“Get on with it,” Puglia says irritably.

I glance at the old man who always seems to have aged twenty years since I saw him last. His hair used to be a full chestnut mop on his head, always disheveled, but now his round head is completely bald and covered with dark brown spots, more each time I see him. His face is deep-set with wrinkles, his mouth is slack and wet, and his small eyes are closed as they often are these days. The rumor is that he’s blind, but no one knows for sure. It’s been years, but in my mind, I can still see him with a mirthless smile on his face, reclining in the back seat of my father’s car.

“Si, si,” Aldo says, his giddy smile gone when I turn back to him. He reaches carefully into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. “Two months ago, I received a letter in the mail from Salvatore’s wife.”

“Flavia Torrino is more than ‘Salvatore’s wife.’ Her father was a great man,” Puglia says, spitting those words out like a curse.

I don’t bother looking in his direction, but I rest my chin in my hand and cover my mouth with my fingers. This is not the time to be found smiling.

“Scuse, capo, si. I received a letter accusing Salvatore of making plans on my territory.”

“And what did you do with that information?” I ask.

Molise curses at me to hold my tongue, and I nod my head in simple apology. He turns to Aldo. “What did you do with that information?”

I don’t plan to die here today, but if I do, watching Aldo squirm at that question is a sliver of happiness I will take to my grave if this is the end, and even if it is not.

“Capi, I-I know that I should have brought this information to you first, but—”

“But you didn’t,” Abruzzo cuts in, his voice sharp as a knife. “So, what did you do?”

Aldo has recovered himself a bit. “I took measures to protect myself.”

“As any man would,” Liguria says defensively.

“What he means is that he schemed to have me killed.” Aldo’s eyes shoot to me, full of anger and fear. “He hiredboys,” I spit that word, “to come at me in the middle of the plaza with police and tourists swarming around. He didn’t even have the balls to come to me as a man. Or at least kill me himself.”

The men around the table begin to murmur, not because he tried to kill me but because he was reckless and cowardly. What if his men had gotten caught? What if the carabinieri had been able to trace it back to him? To them? To our organization?

Aldo’s face has gone red. His forehead is shiny with sweat.

I let him see me smile briefly.

His jaw tics in frustration before he turns back to the table. “Capi, if a man’s wife and-and the daughter of a former padrino told you that her husband was coming after you, would you wait? If The Butcher was coming for your head, would you lay down and let him carve you up?”

Even I have to nod at that sound logic. When I turn back to the table, some of the capi are looking at me with clinical precision. I pretend to be contrite, but inside I’m laughing, happy that it was Aldo who reminded them of who I was. They used to call me The Butcher and I’m sure they’re all remembering why. A few capi have bent their heads together to confer with their neighbors, but even their eyes stray to me every now and again.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Salvatore?” That question comes from Molise.

“It’s untrue.”

“Are you calling him a liar?” Puglia spits.

“Yes.”

“And Flavia?”

I laugh so hard my shoulders are shaking. “Flavia lied more than she ever told the truth.”

Puglia starts to grumble, but Sardinia cuts him off. “Lied?”

I nod. “Flavia spent a year trying to kill me. When I found out about it, I tried to neutralize her, only to find out that this,” I say, gesturing dismissively in Aldo’s direction, “was her contingency plan. She was her father’s daughter. So, I handled her the way I handled him.”

The grumbling is much louder now.

“Kill him,” someone mutters under their breath.

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