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The door was large and heavy looking. It was made of some dark hardwood, maybe oak or something like that, with intricate carvings all along the front.
Roberto knocked twice then opened it. Vince nodded and slipped inside.
I followed, heart racing.
Roberto shut the door behind us. I jumped when it clicked closed.
The room surprised me at first. The carpet was green and patterned. The walls were covered in bookshelves. There was a table to the right, a little bar to the left, and filing cabinets overflowing with papers along the back walls. An enormous mahogany desk sat straight ahead, and an older man with a shock of white hair, a deep red velvet bathrobe pulled around his body, and a deep frown on his face sat behind it.
Vince skipped the pleasantries. He walked right up to his father’s desk and dropped the box down on it. His father stared at the box then up at his son with a bemused, annoyed expression.
“Well?” his father asked.
“This is why I’m here,” Vince said. “Open it.”
I felt his father’s eyes flip over to where I lingered just inside the doorway, feeling exposed and so far out of my depth that I just might drown. I wanted to ask questions, wanted to ask if the paintings I saw out there were real, if the heavy leather-bound tomes lining the bookshelves were all originals, and if I was going to get out of this alive.
His father frowned at me then looked at the box. He lifted the lid gingerly and stared inside without betraying anything.
I felt like I might pass out. My knees shook, my ankles almost broke. I wished I wasn’t wearing heels.
“Well?” Vince asked.
“Well,” his father said. “This is interesting.”
Vince looked back at me and I could see the exasperation on his face.
“No shit,” he said. “You know what it means, don’t you?”
“Of course,” his father said and a hint of annoyance strayed into his tone. “The better question is, does that journalist standing back there know?”
I saw Vince tense as he looked back at me. I stared at the two men, my heart racing. I could see Vince’s resemblance to his father, in the jaw and the eyes, but where his father was crooked and crinkled, Vince was smooth and masculine.
“Hello, ah, Mr. Leone,” I said.
Vince’s father smiled at me. “Hello, Mona,” he said. “Lovely to meet you. Why don’t you come over here and join us?”
I hesitated then stepped forward at Vince’s nod. I moved over to stand next to Vince and did my best not to betray how absolutely terrified I felt.
“I understand your hesitation,” Vince said. “But Mona and I have an arrangement. She’s writing an article about me that will not include any incriminating or identifiable information.”
“And how is she going to write such a thing?” his father asked. “And how in the seven hells is that even worth her time? Think for a moment, son.”
“Sir, I don’t plan on betraying any confidences,” I said. “He’ll see the draft—”
“And why is it speaking?” his father said, his voice a snarl.
I took a step back, my eyes wide. Vince stared at me, his face hard, and shook his head once.
“She won’t speak again,” Vince said. “But she’s right. She can be trusted, father.”
“She’s a journalist,” his father said. “She can’t be trusted, no matter how pretty she is. I don’t care how long her legs are, how perky her tits are, she can’t be trusted.”
Vince tensed and bristled. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Vincent, if you need something to fuck, we can procure you something,” his father said. “If that’s all you need, there are plenty of women within the family that you can have.”
“It’s not about that,” Vince said.
His father shook his head and waved a hand. “I want to discuss business,” he said. “Send the girl away.”
Vince looked at me, his eyes hard, and he nodded once. “Go wait in the hall,” he said.
I hesitated. I looked at Vince then at his father. I opened my mouth to speak, but caught the look Don Leone was giving me.
So I shut my mouth, turned away, and walked to the door. I opened it up and stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind me with a dull thud.
The hall was empty.
I leaned up against the wall and slowly sank to the floor. I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging my body tight, and had to bite my lip hard to keep from bursting out in tears.
I wasn’t going to cry. Goddamn it, I wouldn’t cry.
I was a journalist. Danger was the whole point.
I just met Don Leone, the most dangerous man in the city, and he knew what I was. He knew and he didn’t approve, which meant my life was in serious danger no matter what Vince said.
God, this was such a mistake.
