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Chapter 8
Isabella
I don’t like this neighborhood. Not at all.
My hair is in a severe bun and my clothes as mundane as possible as I try to blend in with the population of the worst part of Hoboken. Apparently, I’m going to get to see both the best and worst of the New York area before I’m through with this job.
I go into the tiny cafe, a rundown old coffee shop where everyone is smoking and some band that is high off their asses are playing to find my seat across from a woman who looks like she was a model in her younger years.
This is Z, my handler, someone whose true name I still don’t know even though she is allowed to know everything about me. She has seen me through training with the CIA, she knows my crimes, and she knows who my family is. She probably even knows by now that I lost my virginity a little over a week ago. I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. But it’s in the job description.
"Well, there she is. Why do I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Can’t we get some hot chocolate or something first?" I ask, surveying the menu from where we are sitting, though I have to crane my neck a bit.
"You would trust something from here?"
"I mean, it’s clearly full of dirty lost souls, but I am sure they are up to code," I counter.
She dismisses me, and I leave my bag sitting there so she knows I am not trying to run and bring a small wad of cash to the register; several ones so that there’s no reason for anyone to follow me and mug me when we leave here and part ways. I don’t think Z is going to defend me in that situation, handler or not.
A young man, his face scarred from acne, greets me at the counter with barely a turning up of his mouth. "How can I help you?"
"Can you tell me what’s good to have here? I’ve never been." I lean over the counter, giving him a wink and probably making his day. It’s the least I can do for the poor kid who is probably stuck here the rest of his life because his parents can’t afford college. This is why I don’t like this neighborhood. It just makes me sad thinking about all the people that have to live here every day. How did I end up born into a family that worked for the mafia instead of a non-profit? Maybe I could talk to Marcel about finding a way to divert some Clans funds into something worthwhile one day.
"Well, anything caramel is pretty good, or raspberry, my personal favorite." This time his smile is real.
"Okay, then I will take a hot chocolate with a few pumps of raspberry syrup," I tell him, sliding the cash over in a way where he has to touch my hand to take it.
"Coming right up, Miss?"
"Teresa," I tell him, going with the fake name I am using right now. I don’t even look like a Teresa, it’s ridiculous they couldn’t give me something better.
I move over to wait on the drink and lean against the counter, feeling Z's eyes on me. I know I’m going to have to face the music with her, having almost no information. Hopefully, she will like that I have seen him three times now since the last time I spoke to her. It has to count for something, right? And then I can talk with Marcel about that missing brother and see what he can dredge up. I haven’t yet because he has been away for Clan business. Or so he says.
That insecure part of me worries that he just can’t or doesn’t want to face me after what we did together.
"Raspberry hot chocolate for Teresa!" another worker calls out. I grab it from her and make my way back to my seat, playing with the stirring stick nervously as Z's green eyes scan me.
"So, what have you learned?"
"Not much other than that he is a dirty old man," I scoff, letting the scalding hot first sip of the drink shut me up for a moment before I piss her off. "I’m getting there." I sit back in my seat, fanning my tongue. "I’m his girlfriend right now."
Z's hand goes to her mouth as she stifles a laugh, and I glare at her. "Look, I am glad you’re making some headway, but you know we need more."
"What better way to get more than to weasel my way into his very home?" I cross my arms over my chest.
"Touché. Well, I know they told you to use your womanly wiles, or whatever, but I didn’t expect you to follow through. I guess he really is a dirty old man. Good luck." She winks at me and walks out without having even one coffee or pastry.
When I get back to the hotel, I find Marcel in just a pair of jeans on the bed, having ordered room service and watching a rerun of Survivor on the television.
I stand in front of it and gesture to him. "Really, this is the greeting I get?"
"How’s it going?" he asks, and it takes everything in me not to just melt and lay at his side, begging for him to touch me the way he did last time he was here.
"Well, he is a dirty old man who told me I could have what I wanted if I spread my legs and keep my mouth shut, and I have a name I want you to look into."
He turns the TV off, and I swear he looks pissed. "Well I figured he was a dirty fuck." His fists are clenched.
"Yeah, he called me little girl."
"You know his dick is getting blown off when you’re done with this, right?" I just laugh at him. I can’t tell if he is being serious or not. "What’s the name?"
"Vinny Falcone. Apparently he went missing several years ago. There seems to be some contention with Franco and the boys about it."
"I recognize it, but I don’t know why. Let me do some digging. Maybe this will be the break you need, and you won’t have to crawl into bed with him."
