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I refuse to take it. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, I think you do, Lily.” She smirks. “At least, if you want your brother to stay safe.”
Teddy?
My pulse kicks with panic as she continues: “Go to the Met museum, the Impressionist wing, Degas’ The Dancing Class. Be there at four.”
“No,” I protest. “Tell me what’s going on right now. I’m not playing your games.”
“The Met,” she repeats. Then she presses the card into my hand, and walks out, leaving me alone in the dressing room with a five-thousand-dollar dress and a racing heart.
And the knowledge that even though I’ve been in danger from Nero, the situation has just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
I finish payingfor my shopping spree and watch as employees carry my bags down to where Nero’s driver is waiting at the curb.
“Home?” he asks me, looking bored.
“It’s Nero’s home, not mine.” I can’t help saying. “But I’d like to stop at the Met first. There’s a new exhibition,” I babble, trying not to seem suspicious, but the guy is already pulling away, not caring.
Traffic is heavy, and I nibble on my bottom lip as I keep checking the time. The presence of the FBI is bad news all around. What do they want with me? They must have been watching Nero to even know I’m here, but Nero will lose his mind if he finds out that I’m meeting them for a hush-hush discussion.
Rule number one of the mafia: Talking to the Feds gets you killed.
Or worse.
We finally pull up outside the museum. “Are you coming in?” I blurt, nervous. “The Monet exhibit is amazing.”
The driver, Kyle, stares back at me. “I’ll wait.”
“OK!”
I hurry inside, grabbing a map and info brochure, and playing tourist in case the driver—or any one of Nero’s other guys—did follow me, after all. I act causal, gazing at the art and following the female agent’s directions until I find the meeting spot. I only see other visitors around, so I take a seat on the bench in front of the painting and wait.
I’m not waiting long.
“Lily. You’re looking well.”
I turn as an older man casually takes position on the bench beside me. He’s in his fifties, wearing a button-down and chinos, with tortoiseshell spectacles on his face.
I haven’t seen him in ten years.
“Agent Greggs,” I say, my unease growing.
He looks surprised. “You remember me?”
I clench my jaw. “I remember everything about that night.”
Sneaking home from a tryst with Nero only to find my parents waiting with their bags packed, and this strange man telling me that we had to leave immediately, in the dead of night.
Telling me that my life as Lily Fordham was over.
I swallow hard. “I thought you’d be retired by now,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “A cushy golden watch, courtesy of putting Roman Barretti behind bars. Didn’t they give you a medal for making my dad give testimony against him?”
He nods, and I snort. “Well, good for you. Never mind that I lost everything. You might have become a big shot at the FBI for locking up a big-time Mob boss, but you’re not the hero in my story.”
Agent Greggs exhales. “I’m sorry, Lily. And I’m sorry about your dad. I heard he passed. But you should know, he did what he did to protect you. You, and your brother.”
I fold my arms, hating the old feelings of betrayal and grief whirling in my chest.
