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All of them have variations of a particular pursing, a thin push of the lips, just at the front of the mouth, to show suspicion or a particular kind of thought.
Meanwhile, I distract myself by wondering why the don blusters so forcefully over the Crespi killings. Is he afraid of something like that happening to him?
When the subject first came up, I was afraid someone knew. Or, even worse, that they would sniff me out. The more they talk, the more sure I am. Nobody knows anything.
Still, I’m afraid of some details colliding and someone putting two and two together. Or that somebody will say something and I’ll react.
All I can do to distract myself is to study them. It helps, but it doesn’t take my mind far from what Bruno’s fingers are doing to me under the table. I study the men’s faces and try to focus on details.
The more I watch, the more I notice that their faces don’t really move in the same ways. Particularly their eyes. They’re all different shades of blue. Carlo’s are pale, almost clear. They’re still a lot, but when they move, they dart quickly. Directly. Bruno’s eyes rove. They’re bright blue and constantly seeking. Probing.
Alessio’s sapphire blue eyes are like weapons. They hunt, burn, pin and drill. Everything about him seems like it could have a combat application.
The don’s eyes are the nearest to green. In fact, sometimes they are green.
Bruno squeezes my leg as he says, “Who could have whacked Gianni like that?”
Alessio agrees. “Seriously. In his own home. The head of a family. They’re not the top of the tree, but they’re not nobody, either.”
And the don glowers. “And his eldest son. That can not have been sanctioned.”
Carlo is quiet. “Can’t it? Could Don Pucci have okayed a hit like that?” He looks around his brothers and the don. “Or the Romanos?”
Bruno dismisses the idea. “We would have been told, wouldn’t we?”
Alessio says, “Dad would.” He looks at the don before asking his brothers, “Do you think he might be keeping it close?”
The don says, “An outrage like that?” But I notice he doesn’t confirm or deny.
Bruno’s head shakes. “In the man’s own home.”
The don knocks his knuckles. “That’s some fucking disrespect, right there.”
Bruno says, “There’s bound to be fallout.”
Carlo nods, “Blowback from a thing like that could burn everybody.”
Alessio looks around the table. “Whatever lowlife did this thing, they’re going to have to run forever.” He says it like it’s a threat. I don’t flinch as his eyes pass mine in the sweep. “They’ve got a lot to answer for. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.”
I swallow when Bruno says, “Seriously. What kind of a lowlife?” His hand slipping up my thigh doesn’t help. I decide enough is enough and grip his wrist to pull it away. But it doesn’t budge. He’s too strong. And his smirk deepens.
Carlo says, “You really think it could have been a couple of punks?”
Bruno shrugs. He has an innocent butter-wouldn’t-melt look on his face on as he looks around.
The don almost roars, “Some fucking randos, jacking people’s homes? A pack of rabid junkies?”
When Alessio says, “Whoever it was, they’re dead meat, whether they know it or not,” I wonder if he’s just playing up for the don.
Bruno agrees. “When it catches up with them, it ain’t going to be pretty.”
“Why, though?” Alessio spreads his big hands.
Bruno raps his huge knuckles on the white linen. “Right? Gianni.”
“And Paulo.” Alessio sounding exasperated. “The don and his heir.”
Bruno’s head shakes. “Brutal.”
