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C&C Enterprises is housed inside an old garment manufacturing warehouse. Half the space is allotted to construction vehicles and equipment. Dividing the large space is the main entrance, the “Grand Foyer,” Ciro calls it, because of the steel beams crisscrossing the pitched ceiling, which gives it a cathedral-like feel. Cubicles have been set up on the other half of the warehouse, with Ciro’s office running along the back exterior wall.
I track him down near the cement mixer.
“Glad you’re working late,” he says when he catches sight of me. “Can you pick up an envelope?”
“Kelly and I have a dinner reservation.” A girl’s night out she may or may not attend. But I won’t give up on our friendship.
“Nope. I canceled it. Um … dining out in public isn’t a good idea right now.”
“You canceled our dinner reservation?”
“Well, yeah. Like I said, things are a bit sketchy at the moment, and I’m … um … lying low for a bit.”
I clench the papers tighter. Kelly invited him along with us, didn’t she? So much for a heart-to-heart conversation.
“So … about the envelope? You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
I sigh. “Where?”
“The casino. It won’t take long. You can walk there and back while I lock up.” He glances around nervously, and I follow suit. But the warehouse is quiet, everyone having left for the day.
He rubs a finger beneath his nose. The cocaine itch, people call it. Often accompanied by a cocaine-induced paranoia—or so the articles I’ve read have said. Ciro has become more and more paranoid lately. How does Kelly not see it?
“Anyway, it’s too hot to dine out.”
You owe him. You can survive until the end of summer, Riley.
“Before I go.” I hold up the papers in my hand. “These were tossed on your desk. Who’s Emilio Smith? There is an airline receipt and prepaid billing for a ridiculously expensive six-month stay at a Mexico City hotel, both in his name. Paid for on the C&C Enterprises credit card—the statement’s also here.”
Ciro pats his pockets, then curses. “Goddamn it. Give me those.” He lunges and snatches them from my hand.
I frown. “Who is he?”
“Jesus Christ. Lower your voice.” He looks around wildly. “I meant to shred this.”
My heart sinks.
Please don’t let this be about drugs.
“Forget you saw Cont … fuckkk … Emilio’s name. Emilio Smith’s a nobody. Find anything else with his name on it and destroy it immediately.” He hits the “on” button on the cement mixer, and it rumbles to life. The cylinder rotates three times before he tosses the papers inside.
I stare in disbelief as the receipts absorb into the refreshened cement.
“Ask for Tommaso.”
“What?”
“At the casino, ask for him.”
I glance from the cement to Ciro and then to the rafters above. A few more weeks and you can leave with a clear conscience.
“Wait. And Riley,” he says as I turn to leave.
“Be careful.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Goose bumps prickle my arms. I glance over my shoulder and search the faces of the pedestrians behind me. Nothing outward, no weird expressions or dodgy looks, but it feels like I’m being followed.
