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What I did do, though, was run back into the bedroom, finding the gun that I’d seen nestled in the nightstand.
I didn’t know a damn thing about guns. But they didn’t exactly seem like rocket science. Point, pull trigger, boom.
It was surprisingly heavy in my hand, and my stomach flip-flopped as I shoved it into my bag.
There was a set of keys amongst the mess of bags. I figured the chain must have belonged to Dante or Santo, and they’d left it because the three of them had gone wherever they were going in the same car.
I would ask for forgiveness later.
But I was stealing his car.
I grabbed the keys in my hand, then made my way out the door.
Nino had taken the elevator key with him, but I was hoping that it would go down even without it. You know, for fire safety reasons and such.
I’d been right to guess that.
My heart was in my throat as I rushed through the lobby, heading out into the bright sun.
Grabbing the keys, I bleeped the locks, then followed the sound of the beep until I found a black luxury sedan, then threw myself into it.
I knew that my best bet would be to tell one of them, to call Nino, as I sat in the driver’s seat for an embarrassingly long moment to realize I needed to step on the break to hit the push-to-start engine button.
But when I tried, his phone went right to voicemail.
Off?
He had it off?
During an emergency sort of situation that involved a safe house?
But, I guess, if I was supposed to be staying in said safe house, there was no reason for him to think I might be calling with a problem. And, well, he was on a job. He probably couldn’t have his phone on if… they were, you know, doing things. Illegal things.
After a search on my phone to find where Taylor Avenue was, I did another quick search for the only thing I had to go on.
Famiglia.
The restaurant he’d taken me to.
It had been bustling with activity when he’d taken me, even though it was off hours. I was praying that meant someone was around who could get a message to Luca, who owned it, and therefore to Nino.
I hit dial as I flew out of the parking space, and sped out of the lot.
“Famiglia,” a voice said. Not a young, perky woman, like you’d expect of a hostess, but a more seasoned older man.
“I, ah, I need to get an urgent message to Mr. Grassi,” I said, cruising through a stop sign, shoulders hunching up like police sirens were going to start screaming at me for the violation.
“I am Mr. Grassi,” he said, making me stiffen.
Mr. Grassi?
Maybe an uncle?
Or, no, Luca’s dad.
Nino had mentioned that Luca and his dad ran the restaurant.
“You’re Luca’s dad, right?” I asked.
