Page 133 of Disgrace

John had said his peace.

He gave his order.

He meant it.

“Where is he going?” Giovanni demanded.

“We’re not done talking, John,” Dante called.

“Actually,” Lucian said, “he is done, and he can be done whenever he wants to be, brothers. Benefit of being the boss—a benefit you used all the damn time, Dante. A boss is a boss is a boss, even if he is the boss of another family. He said what he said. It’s done. Let it be done.”

• • •

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the fucking cake, Siena.”

“What?” she asked.

Her sleepy confusion might have been cute any other time if John wasn’t so goddamn fixated on finding the cake she had mentioned the night before. He felt her come closer as he peered into the fridge again, and moved things around.

There wasn’t even that much in there. It wasn’t like the fucking cake had got out, and walked away or some nonsense.

“Did you put it in the cupboard or something?” he asked.

Because it wasn’t on the counter in a dish, either.

Standing, he shut the fridge door, and turned to face Siena. She had leaned one hip against the kitchen island like it was going to keep her standing. Her droopy eyelids spoke to how tired she was.

“You want cake?” she asked.

John shrugged. “Yeah, the chocolate cake. You had it out yesterday when everybody was here. Where is it?”

He had pretty much gone through his office, and then the living room on a cleaning spree. Everything was meticulously shiny again. There was no dust to be found, but he only felt marginally better, really.

“You want the cake,” Siena said again.

John just stared at her. “That’s what I said.”

“Holy shit, John, it’s …” Siena looked at the clock on the wall, blinked twice, and then looked at the watch on her wrist. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it?”

What did that matter?

“I still want the cake,” he told her.

Siena shook her head, and rubbed her hand against her eyes. Finally looking a little bit more awake than before, she took another look at him, too. “When did you go to bed, John?”

Well …

“I didn’t.”

“Why does the living room smell like bleach?”