Nick Fontana.
What he said seemed right at the time. The two of us had to stop seeing each other. Even if he hadn’t justifiably used deadly physical force to save my life, which is the legal argument I would have taken if we’d ever got to that point, we would’ve had to stop seeing each other one way or the other. My father, after we got home to New York, gave me the third degree about where I’d been the night before, why my eyes were so bloodshot, whether I’d embarrassed him and the firm. I put him off, told him the red eyes were just a hangover, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me.
Did he actually think I’d been the one to disappear Ray Gatti? I doubt it. My father’s never had a high enough opinion of me to consider me capable of taking out someone like Gatti. But that didn’t stop him from being suspicious of me about something, anything. Papa and I are the same in some ways—we have a nose for when someone’s lying. But he let it drop, and life in New York went on as usual, although without the erotic thrill I got from knowing I was fucking one of the most dangerous men in the city on a semi-regular basis.
And maybe…maybe I even miss him a little.
I give a twisted smile as I look out from my office window over New York, wondering in which part of it Nicky is right now, what particular crimes he might be committing. I’ll never know again. Just this morning he got picked up by the cops, but I sent one of the other partners along, Miranda Winter, who’s been asking to work more hands-on with the senior Morellis for months. She was so excited about it, she didn’t even stop to ask why I was palming Nicky’s misdemeanors off on her.
I swivel my chair back around to my desk and try to keep my mind on the job. We’re required to note and bill every six minutes and I just wasted three looking out the damn window. The Morellis have their fingers in many pies and it keeps me busy, Nick Fontana aside, so I have a mountain of paperwork to get through today.
But no sooner do I get back into the contractual agreements with a distributor of olive oil for Luca D’Amato’s new venture, than there’s a knock on the door and Miranda sticks her head in. She’s one of those beautiful ice-maiden blondes who can freeze you even with a smile. The kind Alfred Hitchcock would’ve gone crazy over. More importantly in this place, she’s smart as a whip. Almost as smart as me, I sometimes think.
Almost.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“No dice.”
“Sorry?”
“You need to go.”
I stare at her, trying to figure a way out of this. I can’t defend Nicky. We agreed. “Can’t,” I say. “I’ve got too much on.”
“Well, he asked for you directly.” She comes into my office and closes the door. I steel myself. She only closes the door when she’s about to rip me a new asshole. “So what’s the game, Bianchi? You send me down there, waste my time, so I won’t make top hours this week? Worried that I’m going to show you up?”
Every week, the billable hours of each junior and senior partner are released at the executive meeting. If you’re bottom three more than three weeks running, you’re demoted. Another strike? You’re out. Top hours get you nothing but bragging rights, and saves you from my father’s displeasure. As the most senior partner in the firm, and the sucker being groomed to take over after Papa retires, there is an unspoken exception that I should get the most hours each week. But Miranda’s been top the last two weeks.
Papa is displeased. Last exec meeting, he scolded me like a child in front of everyone and told me that maybe, come his retirement, the firm name might change to Winter and Associates. Miranda, who is usually as frosty as her last name implies, looked like a cat who’d been presented a saucer of cream with an oblivious fat canary sitting in the middle of it. I don’t think she realized that he only referred to her because he thought it was themostoffensive comparison to make.
Anyway, usually itisme on top with my hours, but I’ve been off my game. Miranda obviously thinks she’s on the brink of permanently surpassing me, but I just need to shake off that weekend in the Hamptons and concentrate again.
“Jesus, Winter, not all of us are barracudas.” That’s a total lie, of course. “I don’t have time for Fontana right now; you’re the one who wants more frontline work; I was doing you a favor.” I tick off the reasons on my fingers. “But I won’t bother next time.”
“Don’t,” she tells me. “I’m not looking for favors. When your father offers me a more senior role and the pay raise that goes along with it, I want you to know I won it fair and square.” She folds her arms.
I sigh again. Papa’s been talking about a round of promotions for months, making more of the partners into senior partners, but he’s never going to promote Miranda Winter. For one thing, she’s not Italian. For another, she’s a woman. My father is a chauvinist of the worst kind. And most importantly of all, he only uses the threat of raising other lawyers up to keepmeon my toes, as though I’d ever be able to escape my fate: to take over from him as managing partner. “Miranda, I can’t do it, seriously. Go back or send someone else.”
“He’s asking foryou,” she tells me. “Like I just said. Open your goddamn ears, Bianchi. And cheer up, for God’s sake. Bill some fucking hours. I only enjoy winning against you when you’re bringing your A game.”
“Asking for me?” I repeat, her words finally sinking in. “Wait—Fontanaasked forme?”
“Do I need to draw you a diagram?” she snaps. “Get a translator in here? Wave flags in semaphore? He told me to get lost and to send you instead.”
I stare at her, her almost-pout, the disgruntled air making her usually-perfect blunt-cut golden bob just the slightest bit frizzy. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Better get going. They’ve got the Feds hanging around in the background.”
I stand, buttoning up my shirt collar and pulling my tie tight.
Miranda gives a tight, cynical smile. “Jobs for the boys,” she says softly.
“Here,” I say, tidying up the file I’m working on. “Take this.”
“I said I don’t need—”
I shove it into her hands before grabbing my briefcase and pulling on my jacket. “You’re doingmea favor if you take it. Fontana’s always more time than he’s worth, and this is the file for the Sardinian olive oil contract. You’ll need to work directly with Luca D’Amato to finish it up.”
