Page 59 of A Love Most Fatal
I was under the impression,for some reason, that the mafia was run by very few people.
As it turns out, everyone has a godson, brother, cousin, nephew, or a guy-who-goes-way-back. Everyone in Vanessa’s circle has three men (minimum) for her to consider, and it’s my job to do that considering.
I’ve been at it for two weeks.
They know me now—consigliere for the Morelli family is apparently no title to be trifled with because after an assessing stare, the men usually lean back and talk to me like I’m an equal. The real consigliere is Willa, and if not Willa, then Leo, and if not Leo, then Mary. I am many, many degrees separated from the actual position, but these men don’t need to know this.
I’m starting to get my footing as I get to know the types of men on this list. Vanessa and I sort them into three categories: goon, obedient soldier, orcapomaterial. Goons are most common, they’re stupid or they’re violent or they are stupidly violent. Capos are harder to come by, because they must both recognize power and know how to use it. Middle managers, basically.
Vanessa says she wouldn’t entirely mind a stupid guy so long as I think he could be useful and loyal to her in the long run. He can be stupid but not corruptible, violent but only when he needs to be, a good fighter but not someone that will want tofight her. Arguing is okay, but ultimately his pride cannot be so large that he would undermine her decisions. An underlying tenderness would be appreciated.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know if a man is secretly a sweetheart?” I asked after my first days of interviews.
She shrugged. “Use your judgment.”
So, along with my list of questions, I started giving the men increasingly detailed scenarios and thought experiments to get their minds working. I’ve also considered DNA tests, because now she wants to know if they have good genetics—if their kid would be a fighter.
Leo joins me for every interview, either sitting at the table or standing somewhere nearby. Sometimes, when he knows the man, he shakes his head when they lie about one of the questions. I underestimated how helpful having him with me would be.
“How many men have you killed?” I asked one man (the first Tony of the week) hoping to give him pause, but he just squinted off, puffed on his cigar. He was no less than twenty years older than Vanessa, a small forest of gray nose hairs visible over his mustache.
“How many I’ve killed or how many I’vehadkilled?” he asked.
I put a mark in the Capo category and moved on to the next question.
The next day, Istartedmy interviews with the scenarios: “You and Vanessa go to the opera…”
“What is at the opera?” the new, much younger man asked. He was fresh from the motherland which was a mark in his favor. “I would never do that.”
“Yes, well Vanessa asks you to go?—”
“I tell her no,” he said. “We stay home and make love instead.”
“No,” I said, “you’ve got a daughter.”
“Oh, you’re mistaken. I don’t.”
“No, I mean imagine,” I said. “You’ve got a daughter, and she wants to go to the opera. It’s her birthday.”
He considered this more carefully and nodded. “We’ll go for her birthday.”
“But when you leave the opera, a homeless man approaches you?—”
“Is he strong?”
“What?” I asked. Leo turned to me with a tilted head like this was a reasonable inquiry.
“Is the man strong?” the candidate repeated.
I blinked. “Yes, he’s double your size, and he’s got a gun?—”
“I offer him job,” he said before I could get to the part where the homeless man in the situation threatens them with said gun. I took note of this, marking “interrupting” in the cons list, but “enterprising” and “virile” in the pros column.
Later that day, we met a man in his office (a morgue—he is a mortician, to be clear). “Say you’re approached by another woman, not Vanessa,” I began, “and she propositions you.”
He thought before answering, a trait which most of the men do not have.
“Is she Italian?” he asked.