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The restaurant is now full, every table around us occupied with families, couples, friends. Everyone seems to be enjoying their meal and company. Except me. I’ve spent the past hour avoiding his eyes, all my muscles tense, and my head is beginning to ache from thinking too much. I’ve felt him watching me throughout as I’ve silently contemplated what he may be thinking and how the hell I’m going to break him down and get what I need to survive this mess. “Excuse me,” I say, dropping my napkin on the table and standing. “I need the ladies’.”
Danny clicks his fingers, and the guy who helped Ringo carry Gordon’s dead body out of the restaurant motions the way. He’s not as ugly as Ringo, but he’s a close second. His jet-black hair is too long and secured tightly at the nape of his neck, and his lips look like they’re constantly sneering. “Watson will accompany you,” Danny says.
I don’t question it and start walking, Danny’s man following. He holds court outside the ladies’ while I use the toilet and check myself in the mirror, giving my cheeks a few smacks to get some color back into them. I look like a ghost—pale, troubled, and stressed.
I get back to the table to find the bill has been paid and Danny is standing, waiting for me. “No dessert, then?” I quip, slipping my purse under my arm.
“We’ll get dessert at home.”
“I’ve suddenly lost my sweet tooth,” I mutter, ignoring the heat of his hand on the center of my back as he guides me out.
“Who said anything about it being sweet?” Danny stops me just before the door, looking across to a table of three men. “Wait.”
Quickly, Brad is beside us, as well as Ringo and Watson. “What’s up?” Brad asks, slightly bewildered, his hand moving to underneath his suit jacket.
“An old friend.” Danny redirects us toward the table, bringing us to a stop at the edge. Their meal interrupted, they all look up at us. I expect them all to balk in horror by who’s approached, but they just look blankly at Danny, and a quick peek out the corner of my eye tells me Danny doesn’t seem surprised by this. “Pedro?” Danny says, smiling. It’s not a genuine smile. This is a fake smile. A dangerous smile. Like the smile he gave Perry that night in the Aria before he took me.
“Yeah . . .” The guy sets his beer down, clearly thrown. “Sorry, you are?”
“Danny.” His hand extends across the table to Pedro, whoever Pedro is, and he takes it and shakes.
“Of course, Danny. Good to see you, my friend.” The delight on Pedro’s face is as fake as Danny’s smile. Pedro doesn’t have a clue who Danny is, and something tells me he should. And he should also probably be shitting himself.
“What are you doing in Miami?” Danny asks, keeping his smile fixed.
“Just visiting family. Back to London next week.” He stabs at his dish and lifts a piece of ham. “We were told this is the best Italian in Miami.”
“It really is.” Danny takes my hand and pulls me close, forcing me to snuggle into his side. The three men all take me in, and I smile nervously, as bewildered as they are. “We just finished, and it was sublime.” Danny looks down at me. “Wasn’t it, sweetheart?”
Don’t scowl, don’t scowl. “Stunning,” I confirm, matching his false beam. “And now we’re going home for dessert,” I add.
Danny laughs lightly. That’s false too. “It’s fate, Pedro. You here in Miami, us in the same restaurant.”
Pedro nods around a mouthful of pasta. “It was good to see you.” That’s a polite way of ending a conversation, if ever I’ve heard one, and I inwardly shake my head at Pedro. Silly man really doesn’t know who he’s speaking to. But how does Danny know him?
“And you,” Danny says quietly, menacingly, and starts to tug me away.
“I don’t think he recognized you,” I murmur, looking back over my shoulder, seeing Pedro shrugging at his friends, clearly still clueless.
“He soon will.” Danny opens the door and takes my neck, directing me onto the sidewalk.
A nasty feeling comes over me as I’m led to the Mercedes and helped into the seat. Danny shuts me in the car and walks off, turning down an alleyway a few yards up the street with his men in tow. My hand reaches for the handle of the door and pulls. It opens. Why would he leave it open? Just leave me here unattended, free to run if I choose?
But I can’t run.
I get out and walk to the entrance of the alleyway, finding Brad standing quietly to the side with five more of Danny’s men. Danny’s eyes are on the concrete under his dress shoes, his fists opening and clenching by his sides. Rage is building, polluting the already stale air in the alley. He looks up and spots me, and he slowly shakes his head. He’s telling me to go.
