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“Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the show?” I sigh. “He’s still knocked out after the surgery, but stable.”
I’d like to credit myself for startling Roberto enough when we were sitting at that picnic table that he flinched, thereby causing the yet-unfound sniper to miss. But the more likely reason that he’s still alive is that the shooter was garbage.
Which, not for nothing, sort of points at Charles and his tendency of hiring the cheapest guys for jobs you should probably be paying top dollar for.
“Gabriel’s submitting his motion to Judge Hawkins to indefinitely delay any proceedings as we speak.”
“Good,” Taylor sighs. She pauses for a second. “Are you--”
“I’m fine.”
“Alistair, you were shot at,” she says tersely.
“I’ve got forty-sixty odds that whoever was pulling that trigger couldn’t have hit me if I were standing still and glowing in the dark,” I mutter. “But in any case, I think we both know I wasn’t the target.”
She exhales. “And you’re seriously still getting dinner with Massimo?”
“Now, Taylor. I wouldn’t want to insult the man.”
“Yes, cancelling on steaks,” she says dryly. “I’m sure that’s what it is about you and your actions as of late that would insult him.”
I roll my eyes and glance up at the front of the venerable Keens Steakhouse in midtown, where I’m meeting with Massimo.
“Does that conclude your super motivating TED Talk, Taylor?”
“For now. Good luck, Alistair.”
“Thanks,” I grunt into the phone as I step into Keens. “Gotta go.”
I end the call and am following the maître d’ to Massimo’s private dining room when I notice a familiar face at the bar. Carmine Barone arches a brow in recognition as he stands from his bar stool.
“Mr. Black,” he growls, extending a hand.
“Mr. Barone,” I nod back, shaking it.
He glances at the maître d’. “Would you give us a minute?”
When we’re alone, he gestures to the bar. “What are you drinking?”
I hesitate. “I’m actually about to sit down with Massimo…”
Carmine snorts. “So, that would be a yes on a drink?”
I chuckle. “Sure. A fast one. I’m buying.”
“Is this where you pay me back for the other night?”
I stiffen, glancing at him. “It was just a poker game, Mr. Barone. There was nothing else going on under the surface, despite what you seem to think.”
He smirks. “First of all, my friends call me Carmy.”
“Are we friends?”
“I did do you a solid the other night. I’d say that makes us friends, don’t you?”
When I pointedly don’t respond, he sighs and high signs the bartender. The man strolls over and pours us two whiskeys before drifting away again.
“We don’t know each other very well, Mr. Black.”
