“Candle,” he said, taking a seat across from me at his desk. He set his coffee down and then dug in a drawer, pulling out a bottle of pink liquid.
The peppermint scent of it hit me from across the desk as he chugged it down. It was the reason everyone called him Big Bismo. He never stopped eating, and he always needed antacids to combat the amount of food he inhaled.
“Tell me why Ben Dalton was in my club last night,” I said.
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it. A woman had come to deliver his breakfast. She set the tray in front of him after he waved her in—a huge stack of pancakes dripping with butter, a pile of scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon and spiral slices of ham, two biscuits, and one orange sliced in half—and then looked at me.
“Should I bring a plate for you?” she asked.
I waved her off and she left.
He unrolled his silverware and then tucked the napkin in his shirt. He smothered his pancakes in syrup before he cut a piece and then stabbed at the eggs, eating both together. “He’s interested in the girl. Midnight Rose. After last night, she’s had a ton of interest. Perfect timing for him, or she might have been spoken for before he had a chance to make a deal.”
“We’re not doing business with the Daltons,” I said.
He shrugged, taking another bite. “Take it up with New York,” he said, not bothering to swallow his food before he responded. “You know how powerful the Daltons are. If we can make right what was fucked up, it’s in our best interest to make the match. Tell you what, though, fucking caught me off guard that the other son wanted the same girl.”
“He’ll have to deal elsewhere,” I said.
He took a gulp of coffee and then looked me in the eye. “He’ll get her if that’s what New York wants.”
“She’ll get the slaughterhouse,” I said.
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Candle? Slaughter? It was a fucking accident with the brother, and the other girl, and you know it.You. You would be the slaughterhouse.”
“Richard Dalton was engaged to another woman here, one he’d chosen, and she’d accepted. Then he sees another one that he wants more. When he finds out there’s no return policy—”
“You made the call on that one—”
“His car crashes into the water at night. He gets out, but the girl’s dead. A few weeks after, he’s ready to marry the one he wanted.”
“It was looked into. It was an accident.”
I grinned. “Accident.”
He pushed his plate away and then he pulled it back. “What the fuck do you want from me, Candle? I don’t make the rules. Besides. What happened out there—” he stabbed a thumb behind him, meaning out on the grounds “—was ruled an accident too.”
He was referring to the glass wedged in Richard Dalton’s heart that stopped it from beating. They assumed it was me.
This fucker knew something about the situation that I did, and something that I didn’t, though. He was reminding me of both. A subtle threat.
Rosalia had her own secrets to hunt down. So did I.
“We’re square with the Daltons,” he said, stuffing more eggs and then a piece of bacon in his mouth. “We need them. They need us. Done fucking deal.” He wiped his hands together, then picked up his fork again. “It’ll be the deal of the century. We won’t have to worry about the heat we’ve been feeling on our neck lately. Especially with Boy fucking things up in New York. This couldn’t have come at a better time.”
I stood, fixing my suit, and then, with one quick swipe of my hand, I knocked everything off his fucking desk, including his king’s buffet. His eyes rose to meet mine. The fork hovering in mid-air dropped, and he made for the gun strapped underneath his desk.
Unless he planned on using it, there was no need, but like always, he moved too slow. I already had the fork pressed to his throat. I dropped it when he lifted his hands in surrender.
“Draw up a contract,” I said, fixing my suit again. “I want the dress code to be stricter. All body parts must be covered—nothing sheer—and all dresses and skirts must be long enough. Right above the knee or longer. I want all bases covered. Every woman signs it. If not, they go without severance.”
He shook his head, removed the napkin from his shirt, and then wiped the sweat from his face. He reached for the bottle filled with pink liquid as I left.
13
Rosalia
Bambina met me at the door as I opened it. Cilla was on the phone, her voice rising and falling in octaves. She was in the living room, pacing in front of the TV.
