“The lawyers will be ready when I decide they’re ready. Not before.”
“That’s not a fucking answer.”
“Move on, Antonio.”
He stares at me. He’s looking for the tell—the moment I’ll walk something back, soften the edges, hand him a scrap. He’s done this dance with me enough times to know the steps.
He mistakes my silence for an opening.
The glass comes down on the table harder than before.
“You know, I’ve been hearing things.”
“I don’t care what you’ve been hearing.”
“People are saying Raffaele D’Amico’s losing his edge. Skipping galas. Missing meetings.” He drags it out. “Keeping a new girl up on the executive floor.”
His eyes flick toward Bea and come back to me.
“Now, what’s that about? Because the way I was told it—and correct me if I’m wrong—the people up here get vetted. Trained for years. They’ve either been in the life themselves or they know someone who has. That’s the whole point of this floor, right? Your receptionist’s grandfather did six years in Allenwood, or whatever the hell it is.”
“Antonio.”
“I’m getting there.” He waves a hand. “That chick in the back, for example—that one’s here because your boy Castellano can’t wipe his own ass without someone holding his calendar for him. Fine. That, I understand. That’s a favor with a receipt.”
He tilts his head.
“But this one’s new. Fresh off the street. And she’s sitting outside your office. People are asking questions, Raffaele. Not the kind of questions that stop on their own.”
“Careful.”
“I’m just telling you what I’m hearing.”
“Choose the next sentence carefully.”
He doesn’t.
“Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe you’ve gone soft. Or lost your nerve. Or whatever bullshit people are saying now—I’ve stopped keeping track. “
The air in the office tightens by a notch. One of his men behind him stops picking at the arm of the chair. Bea has gone still at the sideboard. She’s turned her head a half-inch toward us. Not all the way. She’s a woman who’s already learning how to listen without looking.
I keep my expression even.
“Your guys in County will wait,” I say. “Your money will move. Your witnesses will stay quiet. It will happen on my timeline. You can take that and be grateful, or you can take it and complain to someone who hasn’t kept you out of a federal cell for the last eight fucking years.”
“Grateful,” he mutters. “Unbelievable.”
He stands too fast. His knees knock the underside of the coffee table. His arm is already in the air for a gesture he hasn’t landed on yet—saying something about deadlines and respect—and he’s turning as he stands, and that’s when it happens.
His elbow catches the bottle in Bea’s hand.
The bottle doesn’t break. The glass she’s just picked up off the side table does. It hits the hardwood and explodes outward, whiskey and shards splattering across her shoes and the hem of her skirt. She steps back on instinct, one quick, small movement, and her eyes go wide in a way I’ve only seen once before—themorning she carried that manila folder down the hall and heard me on the phone.
Antonio doesn’t register it.
“—and I’m paying you premium for this horseshit, and the least you could do is?—”
I’m already moving.
