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“And what did you hear happened to him?” she tested, moving forward.
“He died on the plane home from his trip to Lyon. Yes? And let me guess. His estate hired you to look into what happened? To poke and prod around seeing if you could shake something loose from his adventures here?”
She nodded.
“I have news for you, little American,” he said, leaning forward slowly and fixing his dark eyes on her. “If my mark was on this, it would be quite a bit neater. This—this poisoning stuff?” It is sloppy.”
She stared, agog. “How did you know about the poison—"
“I have my ways.”
“And what ways are those?”
His eyes glimmered, but he remained silent, his hands folded primly on his substantial belly. Daisy understood what that meant. It meant he had law enforcement in his pocket. Which would’ve made sense. It would explain why the authorities seemed so convinced at first that no foul play was involved.
“What mark do you leave on your victims?” she asked, sure he wouldn’t provide her with a response.
But to her surprise, he said, “If someone crosses me, it’s quite a bit neater to simply make them disappear. And I have ways to do that.”
He smirked.
“So you’re saying you had nothing to do with this?” She eyed him, dubiously.
“Oh, I wish I did. He cheated me. But he slipped away, and by the time my people realized what he’d done, he was on a plane, leaving Lyon. No one makes a fool of me like that,” he said through gritted teeth. “So I was happy with the outcome. It saved me the trouble of having to make arrangements. But unfortunately, dear, you’ve wasted your time poking around here.”
He shrugged and went back to his game, as easily as if they’d just been chatting about the weather.
She stared at him, a sick feeling tangling her gut. “You really had nothing to do with this?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he said, kicking up the recliner and standing. For such a big mob boss, he was even shorter than her. But his gaze was as commanding as that of a four-star general. “But now I’m in the unfortunate position of having to decide what to do withyou, American.”
Her breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I can’t just let you go,” he said, stroking his chin.
“Yes, you can . . .” she began, but all at once it occurred to her that she’d gone too far. She’d exposed herself as working on Tate’s side. And with Franklin Tate out of the way, anything he could do to make his mark on the family, to tell them not to mess with his people . . .
She caught her breath, her heart hammering as she tried to take another step back toward the door. She ended up stepping on the toes of his thug’s polished dress shoes.
Toothpick man smirked down at her, ready to grab her again. Gnashing her teeth, she wondered if Zachary had been right: if she was going to die here, at the hands of some mobsters, simply because she hadn’t heeded his warnings that gambling and debt brought out the worst in people. Etienne stared at her, his jaw working, as if he was contemplating her method of execution.
But to her relief, he waved her off. “Just go, American. And do not let me catch you here again.”
Behind her, the man stepped aside, clearing the path for her exit. Daisy didn’t need to be told twice. She double-timed it out the door. Etienne’s thugs watched her as she left, and she could still feel their eyes on her, even when she stepped out into the courtyard.
As she walked toward the promenade, she went over the gamblers’ itinerary. According to that, this was it. The end of the line. It was time to go back to Venice.
Empty-handed.
No, she couldn’t do that. She hailed a cab, desperate to think of something else. But nothing came.
As she slid into the seat and told the driver, “Airport,” her phone began to ring.
It was a call from America. From an area code she only recognized because she’d looked it up earlier, before calling it, wondering where it was. Omaha.
Her heart sped up. Darla Mortenson. The flight attendant.
Now, maybe she could finally fill in the blanks.
