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Vinnie, one of the club’s bouncers, took in Aria’s soaked clothes as she stepped onto the club’s main floor. “You should have called. Someone would have come for you.”
The club wouldn’t open until ten p.m., but like a lot of her brother’s employees, Vinnie was there at all hours. Platinum was more than a money laundering operation for the illegal revenue generated by her brother’s increasingly powerful criminal enterprise; it was the organizational and social hub of the Fiore organization.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I wanted to walk.”
He shook his head, a motion that was barely visible given the thickness of his neck. She got the gist of it though; who in their right mind would want to walk in such dreary weather when a car could be dispatched at the drop of a hat?
“Where is he?” she asked.
Vinnie tipped his head toward the back of the club. “VIP.”
“Thanks.”
She continued into the club, lifting a hand in greeting to Robert, the head bartender, and two of the other bouncers as she passed.
She’d never wanted to own a nightclub, but she couldn’t help feeling a flush of pride as she moved through the space. Primo and Malcolm had taken care of the business plan, the inventory, the PR. But she'd been in charge of the decor, and she never stopped loving the dark wood floors, the plush velvet settees and chandeliers, the working marble fireplace that was tall enough to stand in and the purple lighting that lit up key areas like a spotlight from above. It was an elegant, old world space, and she sometimes came to the club in the mornings to sit with a cup of coffee when everyone else was still sleeping off their hangovers. It was the only time she could be there without walking on egg shells around Primo or trying to stay one step ahead of Malcolm.
She started up the steel suspension staircase at the back of the club, passed the loft area that overlooked the dance floor, and headed down a wide hall. Doorways stood on either side, velvet draperies pulled back to reveal the private VIP rooms that commanded a five-thousand dollar reservation fee. She didn’t stop until she reached the end of the hall. To her left was the closed door of Primo’s office. To her right, the extra large VIP room reserved 24/7 for Primo and his entourage.
She paused in front of the purple draperies and drew a deep breath before parting them.
The anxiety that existed as a constant undercurrent in her body fluttered to life when she saw Primo sitting next to Malcolm on one of the sofas, their heads bent together in conversation. They were alone, Malcolm no doubt taking advantage of the opportunity to plant seeds of chaos in Primo’s already-erratic mind.
Her brother looked up as she stepped into the room, his gaze clearing, as if her arrival had woken him out of a dream.
“There you are,” he said, waving her into the room.
She stopped next to the sofa to drop a kiss on his cheek. “Here I am.”
“We were just talking about you,” Malcolm said.
She turned her eyes reluctantly to him. She always felt the urge to shiver when he looked at her. It was more than his appearance, the angular face that reminded her of an ax, the unblinking gaze. There was a kind of reptilian coldness in his eyes. An emptiness that made her wonder if there was anything behind them but the insatiable greed that drove him to push Primo into any profitable activity regardless of risk.
She gave him a practiced smile, resisted the urge to ask why they’d been talking about her. It was what Malcolm wanted.
To unsettle her. To make her as paranoid as Primo.
“How was the garden?” Primo asked.
“It was good,” she said, lowering herself to one of the chairs opposite the sofa. She ran her fingers over the silky silver upholstery, using the repetitive motion as a calming mechanism. “It will be too cold to work soon.”
He reached out, enveloped her smaller hand in his and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry, Ari. I know how you love it.”
The kindness in his words made her throat tighten with emotion. This was the Primo she knew and loved. The brother who protected her and would do anything for her. It was so much harder this way. So much harder when he could be caring, then turn on a dime, ranting and raving, pacing the room as he spouted conspiracy theories about imagined enemies, questioning even Aria’s loyalty.
He’d been mercurial even as a child, alternating between tenderness and an irrational meanness that sent her scurrying away from him, looking for a place to hide. They’d been close anyway, creating imaginary worlds from blankets and paper and anything else they could find, getting lost in a place that was far more magical than the dingy apartment they’d shared with their parents, their neighbors’ arguments and TV shows a kind of soundtrack that peppered the background of her memories.
Their childhood was utterly unremarkable until the fire that decimated the old apartment building and their lives. It wasn’t until they were on their own that she realized the full extent of her brother’s mental illness. They’d been okay at first. Aria developed techniques for talking him down when he got out of hand, for bringing him up when he couldn’t get out of bed.
But that was before Malcolm.
She always wondered if Malcolm had been able to spot her brother’s mental illness from the beginning or if he’d just gotten lucky. Whatever the genesis of their friendship, Malcolm had moved in quickly, forging a bond with Primo that surpassed even his reliance on Aria.
She squeezed his hand. “It’s alright. Spring will come again.”
She regretted the words as soon as she said them. It felt like tempting fate, as if even spring couldn’t be guaranteed in the company of Malcolm Gatti and his power over her brother.
