I frown. “Tomorrow?”
“The neutral gala? Where all the city’s finest hypocrites pretend to give a shit about sick kids?” He stares at me. “Don’t fucking tell me you forgot.”
Tomorrow.
The gala is tomorrow.
I knew that. I’ve known for weeks. It’s been on the calendar, circled in red, with notes about attendees and strategic objectives and all the careful planning I do for every major event.
And yet, somewhere in the past few days, it slipped completely from my mind.
“Of course I didn’t forget.”
I sound like myself. In control. Unshakable.
I’m full of shit.
“You forgot.” Lorenzo’s grin returns. “Holy shit. Raffaele D’Amico forgot a meeting.”
“I didn’t?—”
“The man who remembers every handshake, every insult, every number on every ledger going back a decade—that guy forgot the biggest sit-down of the quarter.” He shakes his head slowly. “Must be one hell of a distraction.”
“Hey, sweetheart.” He snatches up his empty glass and raises it toward Bea without looking away from me. “Top me off, will you?”
I hear her move from her desk. There’s the clink of the bottle. She enters my peripheral vision, pouring whiskey into Lorenzo’s glass while he watches me with that insufferable grin.
“You know what’s funny?” Lorenzo takes the refilled glass but addresses Bea now, not me. “Five years I’ve been running muscle for this guy. Five years. You wanna know what I’ve seen in that time?”
Bea doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t leave either.
“I’ve seen Nico throw tantrums over nothing. Seen Victor Jr. smile while planning to gut someone. Seen the old man check out completely after his wife died.” He takes a long sip, eyes still on her. “But him?” He jerks his chin toward me. “The constant. No drama. No distractions. No slip-ups. That’s why I always bet on him over Nico.”
His eyes shift back to me.
“Guess even constants can change. Right, boss?”
“Get out, Lorenzo.”
“Going, going.” He pauses at the threshold, looks back. “But boss? Whatever’s got you distracted”—his eyes drift meaningfully toward the outer office—“might want to handle that before tomorrow. Lot of eyes at these things. Lot of people looking for cracks.”
The door closes behind him.
Silence fills the office.
I stare at the calendar on my desk. Tomorrow. The gala is tomorrow, and I forgot.
That’s never happened before. Not once in fifteen years of managing the Conti organization’s legitimate face. I don’t forget meetings. I don’t lose track of dates. My mind is a machine—organized, precise, relentless.
What the hell?
“Raffaele?”
Bea’s standing in the doorway. There’s no sign that she heard any of what Lorenzo implied, though I know she did.
“The Hartwell briefs still need reviewing before the filing deadline. And the Martinez documents require your signature before?—”
“I know.”
