“No.”
“Yes, you are. You're going to murder them all.” A titter eased free, thick with lust, like she wanted it done. “Send them to me.”
Maybe he couldn't keep her sane in hell. Maybe he'd only driven her ghost out of its mind.
“My mother, Angie, quit sidetracking and tell me what she wants.”
“She's finished with you, soldier boy. But I'm not.”
He already knew that. She breathed against his ear, and he heard her mad desire there. The dark hair fell against him, floating in front of his mouth, stifling him with its heady scent, until he was nearly panting. He almost took his hands off the wheel. She moaned against his neck and he was hard and crazy and it didn't really matter a goddamn.
“I need you,” she said.
“To do what?”
“Make things right.”
He swung up the hill toward the Monti estate, gunning it hard, the Caddy's engine humming smoothly, rushing like his blood.
“We love you, Johnny. You're going to find that out.”
It started to rain, and the water washed down the lengthy cobblestone driveway in heavy rivulets. There was a guardhouse at the front of the private gates to the estate, where he used to phone Vinny and ask him to come outside on summer days. Vinny would always say he had to stay in and practice, but every once in a while would sneak away, steal one of the patrol jeeps, and they'd go down to the beach.
Instead of Dane having to talk to someone or yell into a speaker, the gates opened as he approached. He drove right on up. Seemed like Phil Guerra was a welcomed guest.
Angelina drew closer, until he couldn't be sure where she was anymore, on top of him or under him or sinking farther inside. It got tiring trying to figure out which ghosts you carried, and which ones carried you.
He pulled up to the Monticelli mansion. Looked around for any overt action. Guns, goombas who'd read The Valachi Papers too many times, with a bit too much vino in them. Wanting to crack wise and throw down with a machine gun. Or maybe they were all sleeping in front of the television, empty plates in front of them on the coffee table.
Dane cruised up to the door. Just a nice Italian boy coming out for a visit. Maybe they were asking him in.
He parked, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. Why not? Don Monti had manners, at least. Before he did anything else, the man would want to talk. The Monticellis liked to talk.
Georgie Delmare, the consigliere, met him at the door bordered by two younger Monti thugs. He was surprised to see Dane but hid it well. His chin stiffening only the slightest bit. “Mr. Danetello. My, you certainly do come seeking trouble, don't you?”
“Never my intention, Georgie, believe it or not.”
“As Daniel told the lion. What do you want?”
“I think you know. Vinny here?”
“If he were, you'd very probably be dead by now.”
“You popping off one-liners like the wiseguys now? That was pretty good, I gotta admit. You gotta loosen your shoulders a little though, you know? Work your neck. Hey listen, there's this movie called Under Heaven's Canopy. Watch for the scene with the chick with the rocket launcher on the bridge. You can pick up a few pointers.”
One of the thugs glared at Dane, but the other had a thousand-yard gaze going, probably thinking of Glory Bishop and the look on her sweaty face when she pulled the trigger. I'm gonna rock your world, baby! A stupid grin started pushing his lips out of shape, but he caught himself in time and began glowering again.
Delmare stared at the Caddy, glowering, mouth open, then closing, then opening. “Isn't that Phil Guerra's Cadillac?”
“No, it's mine.”
The tiniest change of expression, which in Georgie Delmare was pure shock. “Yours? But, no, I'm quite sure that it's-”
“Yeah, mine. Listen, I love gabbing with you, Georgie, but I want to see Don Pietro.”
“That's quite impossible. Don't be ridiculous. Leave now and you might save your skin for a few days more. I suggest you leave the city immediately.”
“The man taught me to play five-card draw when I was seven. I've had about five hundred meals here and attended every baptism, confirmation, and graduation in the family for the last two decades. Minus the last couple of years anyway. He'll talk to me.”
“I don't think this is in your best interest.”
Dane took a breath, feeling his impatience welling and about to break the surface. He'd always hated being edgy before, but now it felt kind of good. “You want to check out a real show of force?”
It perked up the legbreakers, who both sneered because they thought it was the thing to do. Dane wondered why no one bothered to teach them anything nowadays, content just to have muscle milling around without any purpose.
Delmare said, “You're a very foolish man, Mr. Danetello.”
“Quit trying to sweet-talk me.”
Stepping back, Delmare gestured for the thugs to frisk Dane. They did a sloppy job of it, these mooks always afraid to touch a guy's groin or ass. You could smuggle a little palm-sized mini-Glock in your crotch and wipe six guys out without trying.
“If you won't listen to reason, Danetello, then enter. The Don is a very ill man. If he wishes to speak to you, he will. If not, you'll leave without any trouble. If there is trouble, I'll take matters into my own hands and abolish you as a problem for this family. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”
“Sure. Thanks, Georgie.”
The consigliere led Dane through the foyer, the thugs strutting behind. They walked past glass cases and shelves containing Renaissance artwork, statuary, and shrines of Catholic significance. Family photos took up most of the remaining space on the shelves. Plenty of dour-faced people standing around frowning at the camera. Italians loved to show off the faces of their family.
“They always wore a lot of black,” Dane said.
“Many of them have died violent deaths,” Delmare told him. “Additionally, Catholics like to mourn.”
“Don't I know it.”
He was escorted into a broad living room that was dark with cherry paneling and burgundy carpeting, waves of rain slashing at the bay windows. More photographs abounded. A deep sense of anguished expectation spun in the air.
Don Pietro Monticelli still generated an overwhelming sense of power and confidence, even crippled in his chair, the years wearing into him like sandstorms cutting into rock. He had been one of the roughest, most intimidating bastards back in his prime. He sat smoking a thin European cigarette, fringed by Joey Fresco and Big Tommy Bartone, who were assembled on an uncomfortable-looking settee. Dane was a little shaken to see they were all drinking coffee and being chatty as the nuns of Our Lady of Blessed Mercy during a bake sale.
Delmare leaned down and whispered in the Don's ear. The old man waved his consigliere away and gestured for Dane to enter.
“John,” the Don said.
“Hello, Don Pietro.”
“You show great confidence inviting yourself into my home. Perhaps too much.”
“I didn't invite myself in. I just rang the bell.”
Dane stepped closer to the huge windows at the back of the room, watching as the streaming water battered the glass.
They all remained like that until Joey Fresco decided to tighten the tension and flex his attitude.
In the army, Dane had never learned to do as he was told and just make it easy on himself. He always spoke his mind and traveled in a straight line, and he didn't let an asshole officer's stripes keep him from saying his piece.
He felt acutely inadequate in the imagination department, and he knew what he was going to do now even though it was bound to cause a lot of problems all around.
Skinny Joey Fresco gave a grin. He put down his cup of coffee and a half-eaten anisette cookie and drew a pipsqueak.22. Dane almost burst out laughing. Joey used to go in for a.357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel, but it was a heavy piece of hardware and he hadn't needed that much firepower in a long time. So he'd gotten a touch soft and carried the much lighter snub-nosed Sentinel.22. It wouldn't stop a pissed off Sicilian with a couple of amarettos in him unless Joey walked right up and made a head shot.