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I blinked rapidly. “Who are we meeting with?”
“My father.” He turned away and got out.
I sat there in the passenger side seat as he walked around the car. He moved in slow motion, in long, confident strides, and I gaped at him as shock reverberated down my skin.
I never in a million years thought I’d actually get to meet Don Leone in person. I saw him at the party where I met Vince for the first time, of course, but I wasn’t actually meeting him at the time. We just shared a mutual space, that was all.
But this must be the Don’s private residence. This was probably where Vince grew up, full of childhood memories and teenage angst. This was the city’s seedy underbelly, hiding inside a mansion.
Vince pulled my door open and helped me out. As I stood on the sidewalk, the front door opened up and a man with a thick neck, a bald head, a cheap suit, and a deep scowl stepped out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Vincent,” he called out.
Vince looked over and sighed. “Roberto,” he said. “You’re fast today.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to see my father.”
I leaned against the car as Roberto’s eyes swung over to me. His scowl deepened as he looked me up and down.
“Not with her, you won’t,” Roberto said.
“She’s coming in,” Vince said. “Go tell my father it’s important.”
“I’m not going to bother the Don with this.”
“Roberto.” Vince walked to the end of the stoop and stared up at the big bald man. “If you don’t get your ass inside, I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll make sure you end up cleaning corpses from the Schuylkill for the rest of your pathetic, ass-licking life. Now fucking move.”
Roberto stared down at Vince before shaking his head. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll make your father turn you out then.”
“Tell him it’s about the Jalisco,” Vince said.
Roberto hesitated briefly then headed inside again.
Vince leaned against the railing and rubbed at his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He looked back at me. “I’m fine,” he said.
“You don’t look fine.”
He pushed off the railing and walked toward me, his eyes hot and hard on my body.
“Did you hear what I said in the car?” he asked.
I nodded. “I heard you.”
“Keep your mouth shut in there.”
“We’re not in there yet.”
He lingered for a second and I could see his frustration.
“This is a big deal,” he said, his voice low. “This is the sort of fucking thing that will keep me from going back to New York.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “And you care more about getting back to the city than you do about a possible war with this cartel?”
“More or less,” he said. “Not that you’d understand.”
I shrugged. “I get the sense you don’t love it here and don’t really get along with your father.”
He laughed, a harsh and short bark. “You noticed?” he asked.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“I bet you’d like that,” he said, leaning toward me. “You want to hear about my daddy issues? I’d rather hear about yours. Or maybe you can just call me daddy and we can move on with our lives.”
I glared at him. “No need to be an asshole.”
He smirked at me and put a hand on my cheek. I tried to pull away but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Don’t forget what I said,” he whispered, leaning close to press his lips to my ear. I let out a little breath, choking back a groan. “Keep your mouth shut in there, for your own sake. I don’t want to see you get hurt, my little journalist.”
He let me go and turned away just as the door opened again.
Roberto stepped outside, looking even more annoyed and miserable.
“He’ll see you now,” Roberto said. “Come with me.”
Vince grunted, opened the car door, and grabbed the black snake box from the back seat. He slammed the door shut and walked up the stoop. I followed, holding onto the railing.
We stepped into a wide entryway with a high ceiling and a crystal chandelier. Wood paneling covered the walls and oil paintings hung in neat, orderly rows. Expensive and intricate mosaic tilework covered the floor. It seemed like the kind of place a British lord or lady would be happy with.
Roberto led us through the entry, down a back hall, and cut left. We walked down another hall, our footsteps muffled by a plush, thick red carpet. More oil paintings on the walls, some of them expensive, and a few I thought I recognized. Old Masters, mostly, the sort of things that should be in a museum, but end up in a private gallery instead.
Or end up hung on a gangster’s wall as decoration.
Roberto took us to a door at the very end of the long hallway. It took me a moment to realize that the hall was far too long to go through only one house. The Don must’ve owned most of the block, maybe the whole thing.
