Page 56 of Lorenzo

Ever since Gina’s near miscarriage, I’ve dreaded this call.

I was looking forward to being an uncle.

And I knew Dante would totally fall apart if anything happened to Gina or the baby.

“She’s fine. But she wanted me to see if you’d check on Emily. Miss Gina hasn’t been able to reach her.”

But she thinks she went to check out a restaurant they’ve been discussing. I have the address if you’d like it, sir.”

“Why don’t you just ask Ernesto to check on her. He brought her there, right?”

“No, sir. Your wife left the apartment a few hours ago and didn’t say where she was going. But Miss Gina’s especially concerned because your wife doesn’t know the city, and this restaurant’s in a rough area.”

“Did you call the restaurant?”

“Unlisted number, sir.”

Something tightens in my chest. Not quite dread, but close enough.

I know what can happen to women alone at night in the city.

But I immediately chide myself for worrying.

Emily’s a grown woman. And the only reason I could think of for not having Ernesto drive her is because she was meeting a man and didn’t want anyone to know.

“What’s that about?” says Max, coming up to hear the last part of the conversation before I disconnect.

“Emily,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Gina’s worried because she went out and didn’t check in.”

“What’s up with you, man? Emily doesn’t know the city. Gina’s right to be concerned.”

I shrug. “She’s gallivanting around town. Probably having drinks with some guy if she isn’t giving him a blow job by now.”

“That doesn’t sound like Emily,” says Max, picking up the cocktail napkin where I wrote the restaurant’s address. “This place is in Hellstown. Not safe after dark. Even during the day. Let’s get moving.”

Max’s words hit home. He’s right. Emily’s not the type for casual hookups.

“I’ll go alone. One of us has to stay here and keep an eye on the club.”

It’s a fresh, moonlit night so I jump on my motorcycle and speed off into the night.

Once I arrive at the restaurant, I knock at the door.

When it doesn’t open, I kick it in.

As soon as I enter, everyone stares at me.

“I’m looking for my wife. Emily Ricci,” I tell the hostess.

She senses I’m dangerous and determined. She doesn’t give me any lip.

“She left a while ago.”

“You didn’t call her a cab?”

“I was seating another patron. She didn’t ask for one.”

I jump back on my motorcycle and circle the neighborhood.