Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I nod at the man who returns my unspoken message with a tilt of his head. While Anya got dressed, I ordered the new phone and the equipment. Kevin, my driver, brought everything when he met us here to drive us to the doctor. At that hour, the police were focused on the murder scene. I wasn’t worried about being seen when I ushered her downstairs and into my car.
I told Kevin to go to the restaurant and bring me the full menu after I’d shut Anya in the back of the car when we left Nicole’s consultation room. My newfound treasure needed the energy. I had enough time to install the cameras and the microphones in her apartment while she was in the shower. It’s the only reason I insisted she got cleaned up. Stealing more hours of her sleep wasn’t good for her or the baby, but I couldn’t take the risk of not having eyes and ears on her.
As instructed, Kevin waits in a side street. I get into the car and tell him where to go. The city never sleeps, and even at this hour, it takes us too long to get to Park Slope in Brooklyn.
The Victorian mansion that dates from the late 1800’s overlooks Prospect Park. Giorgio opens the door himself. He glances over my shoulder at the street before letting me in. We walk through the entrance into the hallway where family photos take up every inch of wall space. The house looks the same as sixteen years ago. Giorgio didn’t change a thing when his father moved to his modern penthouse on Central Park. I’m both glad and apprehensive.
At the end of the long corridor, we enter the study. The only light comes from a stained-glass desk lamp. The familiar whiff of brandy and cigars that hangs in the air brings back a rush of memories, memories of times that used to be pleasant but quickly turned sour.
I embrace that scent, dragging it with a deep breath into my lungs. I own the pain because it makes me stronger. Ignoring it only renders you weaker. It lures you into the comfort of denial. Donning that pain like a battle harness, I fill my chest with the nostalgic air until my ribcage hurts. I don’t shy away from the truth. I acknowledge my faults and my defects. Maybe I’m using that persistent ache that beats under my breastbone to punish myself for those flaws. So what if it’s like a flogger in my hand? I deserve every lash that cuts into my soul. I’m the one at fault. I’m the failure.
The plush carpet absorbs my steps. My instinct is finely tuned to danger. I sense his presence before I spot the black shape of a man in front of the dark window.
Luigi.
I don’t need the stocky build and crooked stance to recognize Giorgio’s father. The menace that hangs around him like a shroud and poisons the oxygen in the room is enough. After years of quietly watching and listening, I know him better than he knows himself. I learned to pay attention when it matters, and this counts in my favor, because Luigi is powerful enough to no longer have to pay attention. He has no idea how well I’ve got him figured out. Even though he has his back turned to us, I know exactly in which mood he is. He wants to chop off a few heads. He probably will. It always makes him feel better. Only, he can’t chop off mine. He may hate it, but he needs me. I’m both the muscle and the brain that keeps his business invincible. Without me, Giorgio won’t last a day.
Giorgio shuts the door.
“Luigi,” I say. “I didn’t except to see you here at this hour.”
“I called him.” Giorgio walks to the wet bar and yanks the decanter with the fifty-year-old brandy off the tray. “He needed to know about the turn of events.”
Luigi spins around, his face a mask of scorn in the dim light that leaves deep shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. “The woman who saw you, is she dead?”
Giorgio pours three glasses. He offers one to this father, who takes it without the courtesy of a thank you.
I keep my expression neutral. I also learned to never let Luigi see inside me. As much as I can predict his thoughts, his opinions, and his intentions, as little do I show him what’s going on in my head.
“There’s been a complication,” I say, accepting the glass Giorgio hands me without breaking eye contact with Luigi. “Thank you, Giorgio.”
“What complication?” Luigi asks, his nostrils quivering.
“A group of people leaving a bar interrupted us. One of them recognized the woman.”
Luigi purses his lips.
“Fuck.” Giorgio slams a hand on the bar. “How many?”
My tone is level. “Eleven.”