Page 49 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Strike shoos them into the main shop and they go, murmuring a respectful “Don Clemenza,” as they do. I’m still not entirely used to the title. It’s not yet formal, after all. But that’s why I’m here.

Strike starts up the radio to drown out our conversation and beams at me.

“Well, here he is,” Dami says. “So let’s hear it.”

But Strike is too busy shaking my hand to get down to business right away. “So good to see you up and about!” he says. “This asshole wouldn’t let any of us into the hospital room to see you⁠—”

“I’m much better,” I cut in, with a restrained smile. “And I want to move ahead as quickly as possible. What preparations have been made for the ceremony?”

Strike looks at Dami. “It’s Clemenza business,” he says with a scowl. His gaze travels to the bandaged hand.

Dami still hasn’t let me look at the wound underneath. For all I know, it could be infected.

With a roll of his eyes, Dami turns to me. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be right out⁠—”

“You’ll be right here,” I tell him, and then I turn to Strike. “Whatever you have to tell me, you can tell me in front of Dami.”

There’s a battle in the old man’s eyes, but he nods in the end, and starts laying out the plans: the suggested list of those prepared to swear to me, the protocols, and a suggested date—next week.

But the most important thing isn’t mentioned. “Where?” I ask.

Strike glares at Dami. “Every place I mentioned, he shot down. Said they weren’t secure enough. Seems to me he’s got an idea of his own.”

I look at Dami.

“I do,” he says after a moment. “I did. But that date…it’s not gonna work.”

“How long would you need?”

He hesitates. “Another week. Or two.”

I think it over. I’m more inclined to take Dami’s suggestion over Strike’s—I know whatever Dami is thinking, the security would be airtight.

But it will give me leverage on Saturday if I can assure Rossi and Alessi that my people are swearing to me sooner rather than later. “Work with Strike to find somewhere suitable,” I tell Dami at last. “And you, Strike—when you speak to Dami, assume you are speaking to me. He will not betray me.”

Strike gives Dami a dubious look, but nods. “If that’s your order, Don Clemenza, but I gotta say…”

“What is it?” I ask, feeling weary now.

“Come time for the men to take their vows, every one of them gotta kiss the ring and show who he really is. They ain’t gonna be happy seeing a man in the mix who wears another Family’s mark on his skin.”

“That doesn’t concern you,” I say, as icily as if I were talking to an enemy, and Strike shrinks away. “Just do what I’m asking you to do, and work with those I tell you to work with.”

“Yes, sir,” Strike mutters.

I let a beat pass before I say, “And now I need information from you.”

Strike is more than eager to prove his usefulness now. “However I can help, Don Clemenza, just let me know.”

“Do you know who killed Vincent Orsini?”

Strike blinks at me and gives a sidelong look at Dami. “I mean,” he says at last, carefully, “everyone knows that. It was your dad. Cesar. Cesar killed Vin Orsini.”

“He didn’t.”

Strike half turns, as if he wishes he could shrug it off, walk away, but he can’t. He’s under orders from his Don. “Look, kid—uh, sir⁠—”

“Stop stalling and tell me what you know,” I say impatiently. “I know, without a doubt, that my father did not kill Vincent Orsini. And I want to know why that story was spread around—why he let it get spread around.”