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If that didn’t happen, I wouldn’t have met her, and honestly, the world is a better place without another man like me.
The man guiding us to the meeting with Bianchi stops in front of the last door at the end of the hall and opens it.
Bianchi is sitting on a plush leather couch, a woman on one side while another is dancing on a stage, wrapping her legs around a silver pole.
Clouds of reeking smoke fill the space and a few men in the back corner are rolling blunts and smoking them while the girl next to Bianchi bends down and does a line of cocaine from the table.
The hitman-looking guy turns around. “Spread your arms and your legs. I need to check you for weapons.”
“I’m not spreading my legs for you, and you won’t be touching my wife unless you want to die.”
“I promise I won’t get too handsy,” he says in a thick Italian accent.
I grip him by his shirt and shove him. “I don’t need a weapon to kill you. Say that again and I’ll rip your fucking tongue out, so you won’t ever be able to speak again.” I stand in front of Rosie, protecting her from all the men in this room.
“Now, now, let’s play nice,” Bianchi announces with a clap of his hands. “Can one of my girls check her over?”
“No,” I say, lifting Rosie’s arms and taking her purse form her hand.
“It’s okay,” she whispers to me so only I can hear. “I’ll be fine.”
“No one is touching you but me,” I explain.
Her hair falls over her shoulders, tickling the skin just above her breast and I’m envious. I’d give anything to kiss where the tips of the strands touch.
I rub her body, not giving any of these assholes a show because I know they will like it.
“She’s clean.”
“And you?” Bianchi questions, grabbing a blunt from the mound of drugs on the table.
“I guess you’ll have to trust me.”
He doesn’t say anything as he lights the end, an orange ember burning bright in the dark room. I don’t wait for him to ask us to sit down. I take a recliner and place Rosie on my lap. She scoots until her back is settled against the nook of my arm.
Bianchi leans forward, placing his elbows on his thighs and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Trusting is a thing of the past now, Milazzo. We had an agreement. You broke that agreement.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” I tsk, shaking my finger at him as if he is a child. “Our agreement was I keep an eye out for the stone. That’s it. I haven’t come across the stone, so I haven’t gone back on my word.”
“Yes, you have. You’ve done something a lot worse. You’ve married the sister of the fucking traitor.” He slams his fist against the counter, the cocaine puffing into a cloud and the girl next to him cries. She waves her hand in the air, trying to sway the drug cloud to her nose. “Not only that, but I know she killed one of my men. Witnesses are an amazing resource to have. Renaldo.” He snaps his fingers and the guy who brought us into the room leaves, then comes back a second later with a man who has seen better days.
He has a black eye and a busted lip.
“Meet the bartender who saw your wife go into the back room with one of mine,” he explains. “Is this the woman you saw the other night?”
Rosie’s fingers dig into my thigh as she slowly looks at the bartender who can barely stand. Renaldo has him lifted up by his shirt.
The poor guy coughs, his good eye landing on Rosie.
“I…I don’t know. The girl I saw had super curly hair. This woman looks different and when I met her, it was dark. I can’t say for sure,” he explains.
“You don’t know?” Bianchi growls.
“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
“Get rid of him.” Bianchi waves Renaldo away.
“No, no, no. Wait. I’ve been loyal here. I haven’t done anything wrong!” the bartender screams as he is dragged out of the room to god knows where.
