Joey did not know that. He knew Carlo was restless, ambivalent. Flighty. He didn’t know Carlo was reckless. Stupid. He pictures Carlo, sliding a dollar out of the billfold. A moth circling the flame of freedom. A body, trailing a spiral of blood in the East River current. His breath hitches up into the back of his throat. Betrayal of trust: the worst possible crime. Unforgivable. “I didn’t know, boss,” he says.
Tommy continues. “Well, he was.” Tommy pauses. A muscle twitches in the side of his neck. Tommy Fianzo is a good cook. He is a gentle father, when he wants to be. He is the most violent man Joey has ever known. To control himself in this moment must be costing Tommy a great deal. “He was stealing, from me. From us. And because it’s my job, I’m looking across the river at someone like Eli Leibovich and I’m thinking ahead about how to protect us. I’m thinking about how we can offer up a united front.”
Joey, unable to help himself, is caught up in the rise and swirl of Tommy’s words. Tommy Fianzo, with his chiseled-out chin and the low boom and swell of his voice, exudes confidence. Righteousness. Power. Joey knows all this. He knows how it works. The transition from knowing how it works to experiencing how it works makes him dizzy.
“I’ve always hoped you’d be my number two, Colicchio. You’re like a brother to me. You’re good at this. It’s why you understand that it’s a good thing Carlo Russo seems to have gone away. You understand how it solves a problem.”
Joey does understand, and he does not. Loss is like that. The world shimmers in and out of focus: one moment it is the place you live in, and the next it is utterly foreign, and you cannot even breathe the air.
“I think this loss will affect you, though,” continues Tommy. “I worry you won’t be able to think of me in the same way. If I’m being honest, I think Carlo’s disappearance will make it impossible for us to trust each other. Do you agree?”
Joey hears himself nodding, the whistle of air past his eardrums. He feels like he is floating above his body, but he knows that his fists are clenched, that his breath is ragged, that there is boiling within him a vicious thing like hate or fear and that it is directed at Tommy Fianzo.
“So here’s what I’d like to do,” Tommy says. “I’d like to give you the promotion I always intended to, but a little earlier than planned. And with some conditions.”
Then Tommy pulls a map of Brooklyn from his desk drawer, and he begins to outline a section, including Red Hook and Gowanus and a long rectangle up through Brooklyn Heights. “This,” he explains, “will be your area. Minus this office, of course.” The Fianzos, he explains, will let Joey operate relatively independently. He won’t have to go to meetings with them; they will not eat together each week; Joey can hire who he likes, as long as Tommy Fianzo gets a hefty percentage of Joey’s earnings each month. This, Tommy explains, is in the interest of keeping the peace. “War does not look good in a family,” he repeats. “Losing two strong young men, when it’s possible to lose only one, does not look good.” Looking good is something the Family needs to do in front of its enemies, and even, though Tommy does not admit it, in front of the Americans, who think the Family is nothing more than a bunch of petty, mewling gangsters, and who would love nothing more than to watch Tommy’s Family tear itself apart from the inside out. The Russo widow, Tommy says, will be left up to Joey. It’s traditional to care for her, Tommy says. To make things easier. Tommy Fianzo is not without honor. He will murder a parent, but he is not without honor. These things coexist.
“It’s up to you,” says Tommy, as he stands and ushers Joey out into the hallway. “If you’d prefer to move, to start over, you can try the Bronx. You can try Chicago. But it looks best when Family sticks together. And it’s hard, just starting out, all on your own. It would be hard.” Joey interprets this to mean Tommy would make it hard. He dons his hat. He turns to go.
“Hey, Colicchio,” calls Tommy from behind him. Joey turns. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
* * *
—
Sofia watches Joey come home from her seat at the kitchen table, where she is supposed to be folding napkins. Joey is so big the kitchen is dwarfed by comparison. He hangs his hat on its hook and runs his fingers through his hair along the little streaks of gray and white that line his temples. He sidles up behind Rosa and cups the twin domes of her shoulders with his big hands and buries his face in her hair. She leans her weight into his hands and bends her elbow to hold his fingers with her own. He says, “I dealt with it,” and Sofia says, “Dealt with what?” from the table and he says, “Nothing, cara mia.”