“That man of yours. The minor famiglia. The mouth on him. Something-enzo.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo. Yes. The bastard.” A short laugh. “Send him around sometime. We’re short an earner now that Antonio is looking down at us.” He pauses. “No. Wait. Looking up at us. The bastard’s definitely in hell.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Lorenzo at least knows how to work those assholes at the casino.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Good. Good.”
Vincenzo waves a hand. He picks the glass back up. The audience, as far as he’s concerned, is over.
Nico is still standing.
He’s staring at me with a hatred that’s not really about me. It’s about the weight of his father’s chair and the realization that his father just declined, in front of him, to use that chair to crush me. The look of an heir realizing, again, that the throne does not bend toward him by default.
“This isn’t over.”
“I know.”
“You think my father is going to protect you forever? He’s old. He’s drunk.” His voice is shaking. “One day, very soon, I’m going to be sitting in that chair. And on that day?—”
“On that day,” I say, standing, “you’ll still need me. Because you don’t have the brains or the patience to run any of this without someone cleaning up after you.”
All the color flushes from his face.
“Get out.”
I button my jacket and turn to the door, stopping only briefly at the entryway.
“One more thing.” I turn back to look at him. To let him see the threat in my eyes. “Whatever you’re planning. Whatever move you think you’re going to make next. Don’t.”
“Or what.”
“Or Antonio won’t be the last body I leave behind.”
I open the door and walk out.
22
BEA
I’ve been circling the same path through this apartment for the past hour, turning over the harsh truth again and again.
I’m a prisoner.
I haven’t said the word out loud, not once. But somewhere in the last forty minutes, I let myself think it. And once it existed in my head, it refused to leave.
I’m a prisoner in a penthouse, with its marble countertops and private elevator access. There’s even a guard stationed outside the door.
His name is Frank. At least, I think it is. That’s what he told me when I asked, and then he offered nothing else. Eventually, I stopped trying. He’s built like a doorframe and acts like one too—weight balanced, hands visible, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. It includes me but never quite lands on me.
I tried to leave at nine.
I opened the door.
I told him I needed to go to work.
He said, “Mr. D’Amico has asked that you remain in the residence today, ma’am.”
