One of the others—younger, with less tattoos and marginally more aware—shifts uncomfortably. “Frankie, watch your mouth. D’Amico’s not gonna like?—”
“What? I’m just talking.” Frankie spreads his hands, feigning innocence. “She’s just an assistant. Relax.” He turns back to me, grin widening. “Youarejust an assistant, right, sweetheart? Nothin’ special going on here?”
I don’t answer. My hands have stopped moving over the keyboard. My heart is beating harder than it should be.
“We’re here for D’Amico,” Frankie says, dropping into one of the chairs like he owns it. “He’s expecting us.”
“Didn’t think we’d ever get that meeting, though. Guy’s been putting it off forever.”
“In the meantime”—he gestures lazily toward me—“get us something to drink. Whiskey. The good stuff. I know he’s got it.”
The younger one is still watching me, like he wants to say something but knows better.
The other two have already checked out, talking on their phones in low voices, something in Italian.
“Mr. D’Amico is in a meeting,” I say. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Do that.” A pause. “And the whiskey.”
I stand. My legs don’t feel entirely like my own.
The shift comes quietly. Not a realization so much as a piece settling into place.
This isn’t an office with secrets tucked behind closed doors anymore. The doors have been thrown wide open.
These are the people he works with. These are the men who follow his orders, who do the things he talks about on phonecalls I’m not supposed to hear. The boat accidents. The problems that disappear.
This is his world. And I’m standing in the middle of it, pretending I’m just filing paperwork.
I move toward the liquor cabinet in the corner. My hands aren’t steady. I don’t try to suppress it. I reach for the whiskey.
The elevator is fifteen feet away.
Raffaele’s door is closed. Voices inside. He won’t hear anything out here.
The men behind me are distracted. Already bored.
I can make it.
I don’t think about it any longer than that. My feet are already moving—not toward the cabinet, not toward the men, but toward the elevator.
The button glows when I press it. The doors take forever to open.
Come on.Come on.
They slide apart. I step inside.
“Hey, where’re you?—”
My heart squeezes, but I don’t look up. I just hit the button for the lobby, then the close-door button.
I finally lift my gaze. The last thing I see before the doors shut is a frowning Frankie, rising from his chair and reaching for his phone.
The lobby passes in a blur. Through the revolving doors. Into the afternoon sun.
I walk fast. Not running—running attracts attention—but fast enough that my heels click against the pavement in a staccato rhythm that matches my pulse.
I don’t have a plan.
