I can confirm my suspicion if I hear them speak. Learning Spanish was easy for me, when compared to Latin, and the language is easily identifiable. It’s ironic I speak four languages, yet don’t capitalize on any of them. When I’m far from this city and its memories, I hope to feel safe enough to voice my thoughts and feelings with a trusted individual.
Carina is that person for me.
Or at least she was and will be again, if she survives the night.
Tumultuous emotions churn in my stomach and I mentally shove aside all thought of my sister. Losing her once was bad enough, but having to experience that grief again, and so soon after being reunited with her?
I just can’t.
“Benito, stay in the car with her,” Tristano says, looking at me.
After that he and Enrico exit the vehicle. The pair walk almost shoulder to shoulder, stopping once they are a handful of yards away from the other men. The sounds of metal sliding over metal and bullets entering the guns’ chambers has goosebumps rising on my arms. I’ve heard that noise so many times in my life that it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Maybe because I associate it with death?
However, it’s for my protection and theirs. That’s what I have to remind myself.
As though I’m watching a movie, I rove my gaze over the four men, taking in their stances and the position of their hands. They are the most telling. It’s difficult for people who feel as if they’re in danger to emit a calm demeanor that extends to their fingers. The men I’ve studied all my life can’t seem to keep their index fingers from tapping or extending slightly when they perceive a potential threat. I think it’s because they use that digit to pull the trigger on their weapons and so the twitch or movement is a signal from the brain urging them to do what will preserve their lives.
Beni rolls down his window a couple inches and the deep baritone of Tristano’s voice is easily heard from inside the car. I guess I’m not the only one who wants to know what’s being said.
“Whoever arranged this meeting has a lot of explaining to do,” Tristano says, “and I would appreciate it if they would show themselves. Unless one of you is the individual who initiated contact with me?”
He keeps his arms by his sides and I silently nod in approval. The reaction time to retrieve and fire your weapon is longer when someone starts with their arms crossed, which means if there’s a shootout, Tristano should be able to fire more quickly than the others. Not only that, his fingers are motionless and so are Enrico’s. They don’t sense danger as of yet.
One of the strangers shakes his head. “No, señor.”
They’re definitely Hispanic.
“Then who was it?” Tristano asks, his mouth thinning.
From where I sit in the car, I’m able to make out the slight narrowing of his eyes and the way he subtly shifts his weight to his left foot. If Tristano’s right-handed, which I assume he is, then that should allow for his movement to be more fluid when reaching for his gun.
Because I’m watching intently and studying him with a laser focus, I don’t see what causes his reaction, only the reaction itself.
Tristano’s chest halts mid-rise, as though he’s stopped breathing in the middle of an exhale. His narrowed eyes widen for the barest of seconds before he’s squinting once again. And then he tilts his head just so.
All of this compels me to locate the source and I shift my gaze to find a woman at the top of the stairs, slowly making her descent. The numerous bright lights above are glaring, but when the beams make contact with her brown hair they turn the strands a deep gold. The majority are secured at the back of her head, allowing me to see her face. The delicate cheekbones, plush lips, and kohl-lined eyes create a classic beauty any woman would love to have; including me.
I’ve subconsciously raised my hand to brush my own dark locks and once I realize what I’m doing, I drop my arm and thread my fingers in my lap. Whoever this woman is, there’s no denying she’s gorgeous. Even her clothes are styled in such a way that compliments her figure, a perfect hour-glass shape.
No wonder Tristano looks awestruck.
He slowly blinks as though she’s a figment of his imagination, and while I don’t blame him, a twinge of longing pokes my consciousness. I’ve never had a man look at me that way and I can’t say I’d mind a little adulation.
It’s the savagery of lust I can’t stomach.
“Thank you for coming, Señor Silvestri,” she says.
I make sure not to roll my eyes at the melodic quality of her voice. Of course she sounds as lovely as she looks. I bring my gaze back to Tristano in order to gauge his reaction. And then mine changes to one of disbelief.
From the way his nostrils flare and his entire body goes rigid, Tristano looks ready to kill her.
“What’s your name?”
His voice is like a hammer crashing onto a table and leaving an indentation behind from the force of the blow. I nearly jump in my seat and somehow manage not to, but I can’t stop the way my heart rate increases. Interestingly enough, the woman appears unperturbed.
“Octavia Cortez,” she says, coming to stand between the two men.
They both shift their bodies inward as though to shield her, like a bodyguard or someone running security would. During the time that’s considered to be the mafia’s pinnacle of success, women weren’t usually given authority or allowed to be the head of a family unless their husbands were in prison, but even then it was an interim position. Although some women have achieved the title ofboss, not much has changed concerning the traditional Italian views within the crime syndicate. However, this woman has a Spanish accent, which prods my curiosity.
