Hands raised, palms out. He’s in a dark coat. There’s a single black sedan behind him with the headlights still on. He’s smiling—that smile from the restaurant, the gala, the night he put me in his car and Raffaele’s face twisted with jealousy.
“I’ll ask you one last time. What the fuck are you doing here?” Raffaele shouts.
Victor’s smile doesn’t flinch.
“D’Amico. May I lower the hands? It’s awkward.”
“Answer the fucking question.”
“I found you. Obviously. Can we just skip the part where you’re impressed and get to the part where we talk?”
Raffaele unclicks the safety on his gun. “Talk.”
“About Nico.” Victor tilts his head. “We’ve got something in common now, you and I. Both our fathers in a basement. Both our houses without a chair. I think there’s a conversation here that’s worth our time.”
Raffaele’s gun doesn’t move.
“You came alone. To my property. In the middle of the night.” Raffaele lets that sit. “You drove yourself, even. No driver, huh? That’s either very brave or very stupid, and I haven’t decided which yet.”
“I’d like to think brave.”
“Right. You know what’s nice about this property, Victor? The water. Right there. Private beach, private dock. I could walkyou down, we could take the boat out in the moonlight. Real peaceful this time of night.” Raffaele snarls. “You’d love it so much you might even wanna stay there.”
“You could do that.” Victor’s hands are still up, but he doesn’t look afraid. “But you need a partner, D’Amico. And so do I. And there are very few rooms in this city right now where we both walk out alive together. I’m offering you one.”
I realize I’m not breathing, so I force myself to sip in tiny mouthfuls of air before I pass out.
“Tomorrow,” Victor continues. “Neutral ground. Bring whoever you want. Bring an army if you like. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can shoot me at the end of it. I’m only asking for the meeting.”
“Or,” Raffaele says, “we skip all that, and I save myself the gas, and we go for that boat ride right now.”
“D’Amico.”
“I’m only offering once.”
A pause. Victor doesn’t lower the hands, but he doesn’t move toward the car either.
“You come alone,” Raffaele says finally.
“Alone.”
“Any sign of your men…”
“There won’t be.” Victor lowers one hand—slowly, telegraphing it—and reaches two fingers into his coat. Raffaele’s gun comes back up the two degrees it dropped. “Easy. Paper. Just paper.”
He draws out a folded card and holds it at arm’s length, then crouches and sets it on the gravel.
“Address. Time. It’s all on there.” He straightens, hands going back up. “A man should get an invitation he can hold. Feels more sincere.”
Raffaele doesn’t move toward it.
“Don’t be late,” Victor adds. “I went to the trouble of picking somewhere with parking.”
Raffaele rattles his gun in the air. Victor takes it as a yes and starts to back toward his car. Then he pauses, looking past Raffaele… and right at me.
“Miss Mendez.” He inclines his head, the smallest little courtly bow. “You’ve come a long way from reception. The beach house suits you.”
Raffaele steps sideways, putting himself between Victor’s eyeline and me, but he doesn’t turn around.
