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Potato po-tah-to.
The guard navigates me through a metal detector.
“Do you have anything in your pockets?” he asks.
“Just my phone, wallet, and keys.”
“Give them to me.”
I surrender the items out of my pockets. He looks them over, examining every inch of my wallet, even pulling out a few dollar bills and examining them closely.
He then looks at my phone, turning the screen on and off.
“All clear. Please walk through the metal detector.”
I do so. It doesn’t beep, thank God.
“Please put your arms out, sir.”
For Christ’s sake.
“Are you going to pat me down?”
“If you want to visit with Mr. Gallo, yes.”
“But I went through the metal detector. It didn’t beep.”
“This is protocol, sir. Would you like to leave?”
I sigh. “No I wouldn’t.”
I put my arms out. The guard squats down and pats my legs, thighs, and hips thoroughly. He then looks over my chest and shoulders. When he’s done, he takes a step back.
“Right this way, sir.”
“Can I have my phone back?”
“Only once you leave. Mr. Gallo does not allow photos to be taken in his private residence.”
“What if I promise not to take any photos?”
“You may still leave if you do not want to adhere to the rules of the house.”
God damn it all.
“Fine.”
It’s worth it to talk to the piece of shit who calls himself Savannah’s father.
Of course, I’m not laboring under any delusion that Gallo will tell me what’s going on. Hell, he may not even listen to me. Mostly likely, he’ll try strong-arming me into some kind of submission.
But he hasn’t met Savage.
Once we reach the door, the guard rings the bell.
A tuxedoed butler answers.
“Mr. Falcon Bellamy,” the guard says.
