“Should I?”
His eyes narrowed, as if he wasn’t sure of something. Abruptly, he turned away and, after exchanging a nod with the guard at the curtains, pulled Fern through them and into another hallway. This one was lit with red candescent bulbs in place of white, and there were doors to the right, left, and one at the very end of the short hallway. All of them were closed, and the hallway was empty.
“Shit,” Cal whispered. He glanced back over her headtoward the black drapes. They parted, and Francis and Vinny appeared.
“What took you a decade? You were supposed to let him know we were here, Vin,” Cal said.
From the way he spoke to them, it was clear that he was in charge or at least had some authority over Vinny and Francis. Fern didn’t know how far that authority stretched, but something told her it was only to the end of this hallway.
Vinny and Francis hurried past them toward the last door.
“Sorry, Cal, I got caught up with Natalie. You know how she is, all arms and legs and lips. Wrapped me up like a goddamned Christmas present,” Vinny called, jabbing Francis in the ribs with his elbow. “Right? You know it, right?”
Cal wasn’t amused. The muscles along his jaw jumped and tightened.
Vinny stifled his good humor long enough to rap once on the door. He stood aside, and Francis opened it—and a vulgar scene burned its way onto Fern’s retinas.
“Jesus, do the two of you ever fuckin’ knock?” a man shouted. He was leaning over a desk, his bare hips cradled between the thighs of a half-naked girl perched on the edge of his ink blotter.
Vinny and Francis swore, apologies tumbling from their mouths in between profanities. Cal’s tall frame and broad shoulders slid in front of Fern, mercifully blocking her view. He peered down at her wordlessly, his expression unaffected, as if waiting for her scandalized reaction. He’d been calling her “princess” all night, and in away, she was. She’d certainly never been exposed to anything as sordid asthat. Her jaw hung loose at the shock, but she quickly hinged it again and fought the urge to visibly squirm. Cal peered over his shoulder to see if it was safe to move, then resumed his position at Fern’s side. Looking into the office again, the man was now tucking his shirt into his pants and sliding his suspenders up over each shoulder.
“Now that you’ve interrupted, get the hell in here,” he hollered, and Vinny and Francis leaped inside the office. Cal moved at a less rushed pace, as if the man’s anger didn’t apply to him. The woman was still half naked, though she’d slipped on a black, fur-trimmed, sheer negligee robe. She stood behind the man, fiddling with the miniscule amounts of lace and silk. She peeked over the man’s shoulder to eye Fern, who angled her head to hide the scarred half of her face.
This man had to be the Rodney they’d been speaking about. A flicker of recognition stroked Fern’s panicked mind, but she couldn’t settle on it for more than a few seconds. He lit a cigarette as he perused her face. His eyes, a pair of hard, black stones, slid coldly down the length of her body.
“Nicely done, big brother. Or should I start calling you Casanova?”
Vinny and Francis snickered and whistled. Cal sent them a dark glare, and they stiffened up again.Brother? Cal and Rodney were brothers? With his slim, lanky build, Rodney appeared at least five or so years the younger. Again, awareness teased her brain.
“I placed my bet on it taking at least a couple ofshindigs before you convinced her,” Rodney went on, expelling a cloud of smoke around his head. “Must be that Rosetti charm.”
Fern’s fingers loosened their clutch on Cal’s arm. Rosetti. A torrent of ice slid down her back as, at last, her mind found what it had been searching for. One of last week’s suitors, Mr. Halbert, and her brother, had spoken that name.The Rosettis are cracked, Buchanan had said. He and Mr. Halbert had been discussing Al Capone and the gangs in Chicago.
The black stares at dinner, her father’s unusual nervousness, Buchanan’s temper … it all made perfect sense. Cal wasn’t just some low-life, inconsequential bootlegger. He headed up a gang.
Fern tried to let go of Cal’s arm, but he pinned it in place, refusing her.
The girl in the sheer negligee draped herself over Rodney’s shoulder, but he rolled it back, throwing her off.
“Beat it, Bessy.”
She pouted at the brush-off but didn’t argue. She patted her dark hair, tied the little ribbon around the waist of her robe, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He slapped her rear end as she walked away, and she swatted at his hand, giggling.
Bessy carved her way between Vinny and Francis, both of whom were eyeing her swaying hips and jiggling breasts with frank appreciation. She approached Fern and Cal at the door, bringing with her a sultry scent of musk and rose. She held the feathered collar of her robe tight to her neck and appraised Fern with a feline gaze under a penciledbrow. Up close, her makeup failed to fully conceal a bruise on her cinnamon-hued skin, just under her left eye.
“Nice dress,” she drawled. Fern glanced down at the red silk gown. It was far too elegant and chaste for a place like this.
“I said, ‘Beat it,’” Rodney barked, and as if his voice was a fist, Bessy bolted into the hallway.
Cal shut the door, and the small, windowless room shrank another size. It fit the five of them closely. Fern wondered where it was in relation to the houses above. Underneath a next-door neighbor’s kitchen? Their living room?
Rodney stepped away from his desk, and Vinny and Francis shuffled awkwardly to get out of his way. They hadn’t moved for Bessy, though they likely hadn’t minded her brushing up against them as she left.
Rodney kept one hand in his pants pocket. The other made a swirling gesture toward Fern, creating a spiral of cigarette smoke.
“You want a drink?” He stopped an arm’s length away. “Vinny, go get her a drink. Some fruity potion. And ring up Stanny while you’re at it. Tell him we’re on.”
“I don’t want a drink,” she managed to whisper, her mind swirling about who Stanny might be and what exactly was “on.”
