I know exactly where to find my father. When he’s at Cucina Diavolo, he’s always in the small study he keeps on the ground floor, usually with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a frown cutting into the brutal lines of his narrow face. Today is no exception. Wallace, his longest-serving and only friend is with him, staring out of the tiny window that overlooks the herb garden outside in the courtyard. When he sees me, Wallace nods his head in my father’s general direction and goes to leave.
“Stick around, Wally,” my father says, stopping him in his tracks. “I want you to tell my son here what’s been happening this morning.”
My stomach lurches. Shandi said Roberto wanted to see me, but she didn’t say what about. I assumed it was because of Kaitlin. Sal and I were meant to bring the girl right back here and we haven’t. And my brother isn’t here, either, so the old man is going to know something’s up. He casts sharp eyes over me, and, as if he just read my mind, says, “Where’s your brother, Theo?”
“He’s with the girl. We split up. We ran into a few … complications.”
My father looks at me like I’m something he just scraped off his shoe. “I think I know a little about your complications, son. Come. Walk with me. You too, Wallace. I need to eat something before the whiskey goes to my head.”
Not even midday and Roberto’s half buzzed. Nothing new. Ever since our mother died, this is how he’s been. And no one fucking dares say a word to him about it, either. It wouldn’t be worth their lives.
He stands, still gripping hold of his whiskey tumbler, and stalks out of the study, heading for the kitchen. Wallace and I are expected to follow, and so we dutifully do so, me ahead of the older, grey-haired guy. There are even more people in the kitchen than there were when I dragged Gracie through here earlier. With the old man’s birthday celebrations at the restaurant tonight, there are more prep guys bringing in fresh ingredients and working furiously at the stations, but there are also three of my father’s handymen standing by the fryers, apparently waiting for him. In between them, they’re holding onto a bookie, Sammy Preston, a guy with the worst luck in the world. He started running books because he’s good at math but terrible at the actual gambling part. Told me once he figured he’d cut his losses and make himself some cash off other people throwing theirs away instead of the other way around. He’s visibly sweating as we cross the kitchen, and I have a sudden and overwhelmingly bad feeling about what he’s doing here.
“Sammy,” my father says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming by. I heard you had some interesting visitors at your place earlier this morning?”
“Cops,” Sammy says, nodding like crazy. “Some kid got shot on my street or something. They wanted to know if I’d seen anything. I said no, of course.” His words run together, betraying his nerves and also the fact that he’s lying. It sounds too practiced, too plotted out to be the truth. My father knows this.
“I heard different, Sammy. And I hate hearing shit like this. It really ruins my day. See, how I heard it was like this. My friend down at the Midtown precinct calls me and lets me know that Fox Five News are running chopper footage of a car crash that took place on the George Washington Bridge,” he casts a sideways glance at me and I know I’m fucking done for, “and he says there’s this close-up shot of a guy that looks just like my kid fighting with a woman, and he’s getting his ass kicked.” Again, another cool, hard look at me. “And then, my friend at the Midtown precinct, he tells me that one of their detectives has received a call from one of their informants, letting them know that the guy on the bridge getting his ass kicked by a woman is in fact my son, Theo Barbieri. And then do you know what he said?” my father asks. He picks up a piece of cherry tomato one of the chefs is preparing and tosses it into his mouth. Shooing the chef away, he picks up the guy’s knife and begins slicing the tomatoes himself.
Sammy looks around the gathering of men, as though he’s waiting to see if he’s actually supposed to respond. What he needs to do is keep his mouth shut, but even that won’t help him now. If he’s been informing to the cops, and if he called and informed them I was the guy on that bridge, then he’s dead and nothing he can do or say is going to save him.
Roberto looks up at me from underneath drawn brows, scowling. “Where’s your brother, Theo?”
“With the girl. They were headed to his place. I drew off the police.”