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“No, thank you,” I said, speaking to him but staring off in an entirely different direction. “I mean yes, I’m fine, but I don’t need another drink.”
“Your loss,” he said, then made his way to the corner where another woman in a nice dress sat on her own.
Where was he?
My shoulders slumped. It was my subconscious, the part of my mind forever craving Theo and crafting him out of the reflections of mirrors, bottles, and wood varnish.
Fighting back frustrated tears, I finished my drink in one gulp. The ice clanked against my front teeth.
How much longer can you go on this way, Letty?
I signaled to the bartender. “One shot of chilled Patron.”
He nodded, and I waited for the liquid that would drown out any further questions.
“Miss Rhodes?” A gentle hand landed on my elbow. “I’m the night concierge. I believe your vehicle is here.”
My hands involuntarily clenched. “Thank you. I’ll be just a minute.”
He nodded, dapper and clean in his uniform suit. Who knew what kind of clientele would sully his guest-compliant veneer this evening, but I refused to be the first. There was no use in telling him everything, pleading with him to help me before I enter into the waiting car of LA’s preeminent arms dealer.
A fogged-over shot glass slid over to me and I downed it before it came to a stop. “Put it on my room, thirty-twelve,” I said in a rough voice, then straightened my gown and walked toward my chosen fate.
The car was a liquid black sedan, classically made by Aston Martin. I wouldn’t expect anything else from Neri, and when the suit-clad chauffeur opened the rear passenger door, I slid in with a smile, my lips still cold from the tequila.
More liquor awaited me in the side-door compartments, but I chose a bottle of ice water instead. I’d had enough alcohol to give me courage and I’d need a level head for the rest.
The ride was quiet, the chauffeur mute. I busied myself calculating whether this trip would’ve taken longer in NYC because of traffic lights at every block, or here in LA due to the long, flat roads and heavy traffic. It was a calming, boring thought that I held onto, sipping my water every now and again until forty minutes later, we drove into a circular driveway in Malibu.
The mansion was white, with Roman columns framing the wide double doors that would take two of me to lay a hand at the top. A Greek goddess fountain gushed water. As soon as the door was opened and I stepped out of the vehicle, the waterfall sound created a spa-like quality unheard of in the East Village of New York.
There was no wind this evening, and my perfected waves stayed in place as I thanked the driver and sashayed toward the door. It opened with a silent sweep as I approached, a man dressed in an all-black suit gesturing to come inside.
“Miss Rhodes,” he said as I stepped into the entryway. I recognized him from last night, one of Neri’s bodyguards.
I tipped my chin in greeting, but my gaze ping-ponged across the black and white marble flooring, the sweeping ivory staircase that unfolded in an upside-down U in front of me, and the touches of red velvet interspersed in red cushions of the loveseat nestled in the middle of the U. Drawn-back curtains showcased original paintings that were probably more expensive than the mansion that housed them.
“This way,” the bodyguard said.
I followed, choosing to study my surroundings rather than what awaited. Black, white, and red were the continued patterns as we curved behind the staircase and into one of the many white-painted doors lining the back of the house.
Was this where Neri hosted his high-stakes poker games? Illegal gambling didn’t always have to happen in clandestine basements. The higher I managed to climb in this game, the more luxurious the rooms got, the richer the clientele, the riskier the wagers. There was the feeling like this was it, as soon as I stepped into the car at the hotel. I’d reached the top.
Now there was only room to fall.
“Boss is waiting for you in there.” The bodyguard indicated the second door on the left.
With a deep breath, I turned the knob.
