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13
Vinicius
“Ineed to see Mr. Ferragamo. The matter is urgent.”
As I pass the young man leaning over the front desk practically begging to see Cassius, the concierge nods to me. He presses a button to call the elevator which will take me up to Cassius’ penthouse.
“Please, just call Mr. Ferragamo and tell him I have a letter for him,” the man pleads.
I keep walking, half-listening to the exchange. Some random man isn’t going to be able to speak with Cassius. I wonder what made him think he could.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” asks the concierge.
“It doesn’t matter who I am, but if I don’t see him then I fear what Mr. Fiore will do to her.”
Fiore? Salvatore Fiore? And who’s “her”? I slow to a stop. Then I turn around. It could be nothing, but I always enjoy making other people’s business my business. You never know what you might find out.
“Who is the message from?” asks the concierge, who’s rapidly losing patience.
“I can’t say, but it’s very important that I speak to Mr. Ferragamo.”
I stroll closer to this messenger and tap him on his shoulder. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear. Is it possible that your mistress is a beautiful little blonde, about this tall?” I hold up my hand at chest height.
The man stares at me. “You’re Vinicius Angeli, aren’t you? A friend of Mr. Ferragamo’s?”
I smile at him, showing him my teeth. “His best friend. How may I help you?”
The man glances around the lobby and then pulls me aside and whispers, “Miss Romano has a message for Mr. Ferragamo. It’s a matter of life and death.”
I smile broadly at him. “Say no more. I’ll escort you up to the penthouse myself.”
As we walk toward the elevator that the concierge called for me, I pull out my phone and make a call. “Come to Cassius’ penthouse, now.”
“Why the fuck—” begins an irate-sounding Lorenzo, but I hang up on him. The messenger gives me a puzzled glance but seems reluctant to question me when I seem to be giving him the one thing he wants.
As soon as the elevator doors close and we start to rise, I reach out and hit the emergency stop. “I’ll take that message.”
The man’s eyes widen. “No, it’s for Mr. Ferragamo. My instructions were to give it only to him.”
The smile drops from my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Stephan. Stephan Russo.”
“Stephan, did no one ever show you a map of this city? Arealmap of this city. Right at this moment we’re standing on the slice that belongs to my dear friend Cassius Ferragamo, and he…”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Normally I enjoy using nothing but a few words to get what I want. It’s a game, watching the way color drains from someone’s face without me needing to skirt anywhere close to a threat, but right now, the game doesn’t feel fun. The message this man is holding has something to do with Chiara Romano and my patience has vaporized.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the message or I’ll knock your fucking teeth out.”
Stephan scrambles to do as I say, and he places an envelope and a black velvet box into my palm.
“Thank you,” I say, and restart the elevator. I give the letter a cursory glance and shove it in my pocket, and then turn my attention to the velvet box. Inside is an exquisite diamond engagement ring, fit for a princess.
Or Coldlake’s equivalent of a princess, Miss Chiara Romano.
“Salvatore always did have excellent taste in jewelry.”
Stephan stares in horror as I put the ring back into the box and slip it into my pocket. “But—”
