The comte di Mayerglione sat directly across the table from his Donna. His eyes were shaded by a grey fedora, his face was emotionless. He remembered a time when the Cannolis and Linguines worked together on the blocks between Mott and Mulberry.
A puff of cigar smoke swirled from his lips at he looked at Donna Mistress, the veritable Queen of the family. She hadn’t voiced her vote yet, and if he knew her, she would only allow herself to be the final voice from the table. He tried not to look like he was staring, but the expressionless face he wore made it extremely difficult.
Dudelrok and Moirae had been the names expressed thus far. He knew both of them personally, and had worked with both of them before prior to Pastrami’s death, which would make either of their deaths that much more personal to him. Moirae, in particular, he had been fond of, especially her taste in music.
Had been fond of.
“Moirae,” Mayerglione stubbed out his cigar. “Dat bitch don’t deserve to live anoder night.” He then stood up and took his leave, wrapping his coat about his shoulders. He needed a whore.