Lorenzo Castellano steps out like he owns the place.
He’s a big man—broad shoulders, rough hands. Today he’s wearing a suit that definitely cost more than it should, given how badly it fits, and a grin that suggests he knows exactly how much trouble he’s in and doesn’t particularly care.
“Raffaele.” He spreads his arms wide with false warmth. “Good to see you, boss. Been a while.”
“Two weeks.”
“Has it been that long?” He affects surprise, poorly. “Time flies when you’re working hard.”
“I’m sure.”
Lorenzo’s attention shifts to Marcy, who’s stopped to gather files near Bea’s desk. “Hey, sweetheart. Me and Mr. D’Amico are gonna need to talk alone. Important business stuff. You understand.”
Marcy doesn’t dignify that with a response. She collects her materials and heads for the back offices, spine rigid with professional disdain.
Lorenzo watches her go, then his gaze lands on Bea.
“Oh.” His grin widens. “New face. And a pretty one at that.” He looks her up and down without any attempt at subtlety. “Where’d you come from, sweetheart? Don’t remember seeing you around before.”
Bea’s typing doesn’t falter. “I work here.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“Whatever Mr. D’Amico requires.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows rise. He looks at me with new interest.
“Whatever he requires.” He repeats the words slowly, savoring them. “Now I get it.”
I don’t react, just reach for the humidor on my desk, select a cigar, and begin the ritual of cutting and lighting. Taking my time. Making him wait.
“Get what?”
“Why Marisol went home so disappointed.” He jerks his chin toward Bea’s desk, grin sharpening. “You’ve already got your entertainment lined up. Can’t blame you—she’s easier on the eyes than anything I could’ve sent.”
Something twitches in my jaw. I force it to still.
“Come in,” I say. “Close the door.”
He does, dropping into the chair across from my desk with that same lazy sprawl. His eyes keep drifting toward the glass wall, toward Bea’s desk.
“So.” He pulls a lighter from his pocket. “The warehouse job is done. Clean. No loose ends, no witnesses, no problems. Just like you asked.”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Well, you know how life is, boss. Things come up.”
I take a long drag of the cigar. Smoke curls toward the ceiling.
“No, I don’t. You had a simple job. Yet you seem to have found time for hookers and, if my sources are accurate, two weeks of gambling your paycheck away before you even left Nevada.”
Lorenzo’s grin flickers, just for a moment.
“There was some gambling,” he admits. “But that’s not the whole deal, alright?”
“Then what is?”
He reaches for his pockets, patting them down with increasing frustration. “Shit. I had one somewhere...”
