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“Chill, Bruno. Down, boy.” Alessio’s voice is low. “Although, yes. That, too.”
Esther and the don are seated at opposite ends of the long dining room table as I step in. The don looks at his watch, charming as ever. Jago stands at the back of the room. I take a seat in the middle of the table.
Jago sets a bowl of soup in front of each of us. The broth is a cloudy grayish green. The aroma is discouraging. Hotplates on the sideboard have large dishes with piles of equally mysterious and unappealing ingredients.
Manners and hospitality are important, sure, but I’ve only just come back from Italy. I don’t want to eat any of this.
Esther says, “Your cooking is very special, Mrs. Jago. Did you learn it in prison?”
“I haven’t been to prison, Donna Fortuna.”
“Really?” The donna arches an eyebrow. “Then wherever did you get these extraordinary recipes?”
Mrs. Jago’s jaw clenches and her eyes burn.
“Seriously, Mrs. Jago,” Esther says, “you’ve outdone yourself here. I don’t think I’ll eat now. You know, formal dinners like this, early in the evening, they’re not really what I’m used to. Maybe I’ll get something later.”
The don glares at me, then at Esther. Then at his soup, which he also hasn’t touched. He looks at the door, as though that will make Carlo, Bruno, and Alessio appear. The long silence is chilling.
I think about trying to make some polite conversation, but I can’t be bothered.
Since all of us are at a simmering point at least, if not actually a bubbling boil, there doesn’t seem much point in holding back or trying to practice any kind of discretion. I turn to the don.
“So, Don Fortuna,” I give him my innocent look. “I understand you’re trying to steal my daddy’s territory.”
Lucky he didn’t have a mouthful of the murky soup. His face reddens. “Who let this bitch in here? I don’t have to listen to this. Not in my own house.”
“Well, Giuseppe, strictly speaking, this is still my house.”
“God, Estella.” He looks like his blood pressure is rising too fast. “What is it? What the fuck do you want? Whatever it is, maybe I can at least clear that up and get you out of my fucking hair.”
She smiles, amiably. “Well, let’s see. You are the don, so of course the call is yours, but it is still my family. So I’ve come to find out why you staged that highly theatrical raid on the party that you threw for Adrianna Bagniola.” At the mention of the girl’s name, Jago’s head snaps around and stares hard into the don’s face. Esther goes on, “Adrianna’s pretend kidnapping, which you then tried to pretend was somehow Lucrezia’s doing.”
His eyes bulge.
Jago’s eyes widen and she leans toward him. “Did you?”
His teeth clench and he bangs the table with the side of his fist. Soup splashes from his bowl. There’s something glutenous in it, but I can’t tell what it is. “Of course I didn’t. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Jago’s face darkens. “You did. I can see you did. Why?”
He blusters. “It was a contract thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice hardens. “You’re lying.”
“Alright, alright. Look, she didn’t want to marry him. It’s as simple as that?—”
“So?” Jago’s eyes flash. “So what?” she puts a hand in the pocket of her apron as she stamps toward him. “What is it to you who the Baginola slut wants to marry and who she doesn’t?”
“Look, nothing. She just asked me…”
“Why would she ask you? And why would you care?”
Quietly, Esther says, “Something leopard something spots, I think, Mrs. Jago.”
Jago strides at the don. When she lifts her right hand, she has a small Beretta pistol.
“Why?” her voice is shrill. “Why would you do that?”
