“Yeah, exactly,” Carlo agreed. “I’m just a strunzu with a gun. That’s it. That’s all I’ll ever be, and I’m okay with that.”
“You have respect,” Tino pointed out, because he’d been recovering in Don Moretti’s palace in Bensonhurst for two weeks, and he saw the way men avoided making eye contact with Carlo. They were tense in his presence. Always exceedingly polite, treating him like a man who was bigger, better looking, and more dangerous than they could ever be. “You have more respect than Frankie, and he’s underboss. A fuckload more.”
“That’s not respect, Tino.” Carlo took the blunt back and flicked it against the ashtray on the nightstand. “That’s fear. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, what’s the difference?” Tino asked, because they looked the same from where he was sitting.
Respect was a big fucking deal to these people. Tino nearly died over it, that was how big a deal it was, and the fact that he came out of that basement alive was nothing short of miracle.
Now he was itchy as hell.
He couldn’t scratch his back and fuck up the stitches, so he stole the blunt instead, willing it to numb him. He just got to the point that he could sit back against it and take a shit without hovering, thanks to Frankie taking the belt to his thighs.
Motherfucker.
Fear and respect were the exact same thing as far as Tino was concerned, and his father made sure he knew it.
“Any asshole can make someone fear them,” Carlo explained. “It takes someone unique to earn respect like the don. Look at me. I should hate him. I have more reason than anyone to hate him. I fall to my knees instead. That’s fucked-up.” Carlo looked ahead to the bedroom door as if considering it. “You just don’t come across men like that very often.”
The door opened, and Nova stepped in. He paused as if something slammed into him. “Whoa.” His eyes grew wide. “You didn’t think to open a friggin’ window? Even I smell it.”
“The don said it was better than eating pills all day,” Tino reminded him. “He says our people don’t eat pills.”
Carlo let out a bark of laughter before choking it back when Nova glared at him. “Right, yeah, absolutely, Tino. Our people don’t eat pills. Italians are above narcotics. Keep believing that. Your father’s anger issues are completely genetic.”
Tino laughed with him and then asked his brother, “How was Romeo?”
“He’s surviving.” Nova used the folders in his hand to waft some of the smoke out of the room but then seemed to give up. He walked in and tossed the folders on the table by the window that overlooked the gardens in back. He unlatched the window and forced it up, letting in a whoosh of hot August air. “So friggin’ hot today. I’m sweating like a motherfucker.”
“Smart guys sweat?” Carlo asked in amusement as he took another hit and blew the smoke in Nova’s direction. “I thought God made accountants without sweat glands. Not like they’re really needed.”
“Maybe I’m only half accountant.”
Nova came over and kissed Carlo’s cheek like a gangster. It was something distinctive in mafia culture, a bold statement that they were a step above society, and they did it everywhere. In public, in private, and it was done without shame. Tino didn’t know if Nova picked it up being in this house for too long, where gangsters flowed in and out all day, or if it was something deliberate.
Nova leaned over and kissed Tino’s forehead like a brother instead of a gangster. Then he stole the blunt from Carlo, taking a long hit and holding his breath until he walked to the window. He leaned down to blow it out like they were back at their apartment in Harlem, reminding Tino of the Nova who’d died in that basement. As if a part of him was still left in there somewhere.
When Nova spoke again, his voice was raspy. “Grazie for sitting with him.”
“I don’t mind.” Carlo shrugged. “Even if he kicks my ass in Mario Kart.”
Nova took another hit and blew it out the window again. “Are you staying?”
“Unless something drastic happens.”
“Cool.” Nova took three more hard hits, like he was trying to get the most out of it as quickly as possible. Then he put out the blunt with his thumbs and set it in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Frankie’s downstairs. Air it out a little. He’ll probably come up.”
“And we care what he thinks…why?” Carlo raised his eyebrows pointedly.
“Just, can you air it out? Please. I promised the don I’d try with him, okay?” Nova pulled his shirt over his head, showing off his own set of healing whip marks. “I’m taking a shower.”
“You’d try with him?” Tino repeated in disgust. “Try and do what?”
“He’s having some money-management issues. I said I’d help him.”
“Oh, money-management issues,” Carlo repeated, imitating what he probably thought an accountant was supposed to sound like and doing a good job of covering up that Tino had rolled over and looked away from Nova as he went on, “Is that what we’re calling it?”