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Luca studies my extended palm for a minute.
It feels like hours pass.
When he finally shakes my offered hand, I have to swallow the sigh of relief. He can play all the games he wants. But now, if he breaks his word, no one will do business with him. Luca might be a snake, but he isn’t stupid.
I stand, glancing at Alex, who’s distracted by a blonde.
“There an alley to smoke?” I ask Bianchi.
He jerks his head toward the door behind the bar, exploring the redhead’s body while she continues to grind in his lap.
I stand and head toward the door. It connects with a short hall, and that leads outside. The alley is narrow and dark. Also quiet and empty.
The only sound is the muffled music emanating from inside the club, probably from the front section open to those without deep pockets or connections.
I pull the lighter out of my pocket and flick it to life, watching the tiny flame dance in the small opening. There’s a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, but I don’t bother to pull them out. I mostly picked up smoking as some combination of an intimidation tactic and stress relief. I’m not addicted to the habit or the nicotine.
Hazy warmth from the ounces of alcohol I just downed swims through my bloodstream as I lean against the hard exterior of the building. Bored, I pull a cigarette out and light it, inhaling a long pull and then blowing the smoke out at the sky.
I pull my phone out, taken aback by the amount of notifications. I scan the first dozen, surprised by the number of them and who they were sent by. Then, I tap on the number for the phone I gave Lyla.
I’m not expecting her to answer. I’ve never seen her use the phone, though I know she’s taken possible threats seriously enough to carry it with her.
Lyla answers on the third ring.
“Hey, it’s me.” Distantly, some part of my brain is disturbed by the fact that I chose to start the conversation that way.It’s meimplies an intimate level of familiarity. Where you memorize a voice, to the point that it needs no introduction.
“Hi.” She breathes the word, exhaling it with oxygen. It sounds like relief until her voice pitches with concern. “Is everything okay?”
I snuff the cigarette and flick the lighter on again, watching the flame dance for a few seconds before extinguishing it. “Everything is fine. I’m just ending your game of Telephone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smile. In a dark alley that smells of garbage and sounds like scuttling rats, Ismile. Every single man who I left guarding the house let me know she was asking about me. “Don’t lie to me, Lyla. Your ten accomplices ratted you out.”
There’s a silence that sounds like her deliberating about what to say. “I didn’t want to bother you,” is what she decides on.
“You wouldn’t have bothered me.”
“I figured if there was anything to say, you would have texted me.”
I read between the lines.
Shewantedme to reach out, which is why she went through a chain of my men. And calling her didn’t occur to me until I saw the other messages.
I’m here on business even if it’s closely related to something more personal. Relations with the Italians—and with the Bianchi family in particular—are crucial in many ways unrelated to Philadelphia and having my son live in his territory.
I’m also entirely naive when it comes to anything even resembling a relationship. The last time I was in one was…her. It’s rare for me to even have sex with the same woman twice. When it’s happened, it’s been interspersed with months or even years. Not hours.
“It’s early there.” I crap out on commenting anything deeper.
“It feels late. I didn’t get much sleep.” She yawns, as if to emphasize her point.
Miss me?hovers on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t speak it, not even as a tease.
There’s no good answer. Either it will be what I want to hear or what she doesn’t want to say.
I’ve been gone for less than a day.
