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Any fantasies I had about meeting his family and making a killer impression withered away right then and there. Carlo never said it out loud, but it was clear to me that he didn't just hate his Dad, he feared him. It was written all over his expression. I filed that knowledge away in the random facts folder in my brain and didn't pull it out again until tonight, here in the back of this cab.
A bad man isn't exactly someone I want to deal with, not after being face to face with three obviously bad men, but I don't want to hide out and wait for Carlo to lose interest in me. I want to face this head-on and get it handled ASAP. So going up the ladder to the biggest of the bad men seems like the best thing to do. Maybe the only thing to do.
The cab driver gives me a strange look when I mention the restaurant, letting me know that I’m not exactly dressed the part to dine there, but that isn't going to change my mind. As we approach the building, I take off my coffee shop apron, rolling it up and tucking it in the back pocket of my jeans. Looking down at my thin white t-shirt, I frown, pulling as much fabric as I can to the front and tying it in a little knot, trying to give some shape to the otherwise shapeless garment. My comfortable work shoes are a lost cause, nothing I can do to hide them.
Il Fiore Raro is an old building but immaculately maintained and even in the dark, oozing a feeling of wealth and old money. It’s four stories tall, made of dark stone and brick, and a beautiful mural is painted on the wall beside the door. The name of the restaurant is scrawled in elaborate gold cursive on a small marble sign above the door. It doesn't need to be flashy. Everyone in New York knows what this place was.
The cab pulls up to the curb, and I swallow hard. There's no turning back now.
"Are you sure you want to get dropped off here, kid?" Ed, the driver, asked, giving me a concerned look. "Ain't nothing but fancy-pants restaurants around here, and you ain't looking like a fancy-pants kinda lady."
"It's all right, I'll be okay," I assure him, forcing a smile. "Thank you."
He nods and gives me a salute, and I slide out of the car, looking up at the building.
"Okay, Daisy, you can do this," I mutter under my breath.
It's 9:45 on a Friday night, and while the lights are still burning bright, there's a good chance it might be closed or that means it might be locked, and that the chances of anyone letting me inside are slim. My heart is pounding, and I feel nauseous, but the fear of Carlo catching me is worse. This is just a restaurant. The worst they can do is turn me away.
"Please be open, please be open," I chant, reaching for the handle.
To my surprise, the door opens and I walk in, blinking as I try to adjust to the darkness. I can't see much, but I can smell the delicious aroma of Italian food. The floor beneath me is dark, gold-veined marble.
"We're closed."
The host spots me immediately, looking up from arranging menus behind a dark cherry wood host stand. He's wearing a suit and is well-groomed, with a mustache and a receding hairline.
"I know, I'm sorry," I say, stepping forward. "But I was wondering if you could help me?"
"Ma'am, as I said, we're closed. You need to leave."
"No, you don't understand," I say, shaking my head and feeling frustrated tears welling up in my eyes. "I need your help. I need to see Mr. Falcone. Dominic Falcone."
His face doesn't change, but his eyes narrow a little. "Why do you want to see him?"
"Please, I can't tell you, I'm sorry, but I just need to see him."
The host sighs. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but as I said, we're?—"
Coming forward to put my hands on the host stand, I lean forward and try to keep my voice low. "Tell him it's about his son, Carlo Falcone."
The host stares at me for a moment, then gives a curt nod. He disappears into the dimly lit dining room, leaving me alone.
My heart is beating so fast I can hardly breathe. What if Carlo finds me here? What if Dominic won't see me? Or worse, what if he doesn't believe me? I'm just a girl in a t-shirt, no makeup, and old jeans, standing in a fancy restaurant that I don't belong in. Who would take me seriously?
It only takes minutes for the host to return, and his previously stuffy expression has been replaced with something serious and heavy. "Follow me, ma'am."
I'm taken aback, surprised at his sudden change in attitude, but I follow him obediently, winding between the tables until we come to a staircase that leads upwards. "Mr. Falcone is on the fourth floor in his office," he explains. "This way."
He doesn't say another word, leading me up the stairs and down a hallway, stopping at the door at the end of the hall.
"Wait here."
He disappears into the room, and I stand, waiting, hoping. After a moment, the door opens, and the host reappears. "Go right in."
"Thank you."
"Good luck," he whispers, before disappearing down the hallway and leaving me alone.
