Then I picture the way he looks at me when I do—the flat, unreadable stare.
I let it go.
Some things are better left alone.
The office building comes into view, glass and steel stretching up into a sky that feels offensively bright. I push through the revolving doors, nod to the security guard, and take the elevator up.
The executive floor is as quiet as ever. Thick carpet swallowing sound, low lighting softening everything into an almost secretive hush.
I’m halfway to my desk when he steps into my path.
Raffaele.
He emerges from a side hallway like he knew exactly when I’d be there. For a second, I wonder if he did.
“How was your delivery?”
“Fine.” I keep my voice steady. “Someone named Nico wants to talk about the Moreno situation.”
His attention sharpens—subtle, but there.
“Nico is none of your concern.”
“I didn’t say he was. I’m passing along the message.”
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
“What else did Vincenzo say?”
“That the coffee is terrible.”
Of course that’s the part that doesn’t matter.
“Anything else?”
“He said you were making an interesting choice.” I let that sit. “He didn’t explain.”
“Vincenzo likes to be cryptic. Ignore it.”
That doesn’t feel like advice so much as a dismissal.
He still hasn’t stepped aside.
The wall behind me is closer than I’d like.
“Well then. Tonight,” he says. “Eight o’clock. You’re coming with me.”
“To what?”
“The kind of event where you smile, stay quiet, and look presentable.”
“I don’t have anything for something like that?—”
“A dress will be delivered. Wear it.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
