“What the fuck,” I ask when the elevator begins its journey upward, “are you doing buying dolls for your doorman’s granddaughter?”
Nick gives me a sidelong look. “She’s a good kid. Comes in sometimes to say hi to her grandpa, and I knew she wanted the doll. So I got it for her.”
“You actually went to a toy store?” I ask, turning to face him in the small space.
“I sent someone from my crew.”
“That’s not any better.” I try to picture one of Nick Fontana’s men picking out a doll in a toy store. Nope. Can’t see it.
“Look,” he says as the elevator doors open into his place, “I’m not an asshole unless I need to be. Kid wanted a doll. I got it for her. Now stop talking about that and get in here so we can talk business.”
I hang back in the elevator for a moment, taking in the wide, white expanse before me. I’ve never been into Nick’s place. He came to mine once or twice when we were hooking up, but most of the time we got a room somewhere. In the back of my mind, I assumed he had some shitty box walk-up with an AC unit hanging half out the window like half the crew members seem to have. But this place? It’s a palace. Soaring ceilings, the whole place painted glowing off-white so it almost-not-quite hurts the eyes, and pieces of art on the wall that suggest both knowledge of the visual arts as well as taste. Nick Fontana hasartistic taste?
Who is this man? I don’t know him at all.
“You coming?” he growls as I linger.
I follow him to the living area, the ceilings double-height. There’s a floating staircase against one internal wall to a loft area that must be the bedroom. Downstairs, it’s one long expanse of living, kitchen, dining, and all of it is dominated by the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that look over the Hudson River. At the other end of the long room, to the left of the entrance, is a door leading into what looks like a study.
Everything in here is minimalist, modern, sleek. No personal details.
Ah—I get it.
“This is your hidey-hole, huh?” I ask, sitting down on the white leather couch.
“This is where I live,” he answers shortly. “Give me a second.”
He goes through the door that leads to the study while I take in his statement. There are no photographs anywhere, nothing personal. Even the galley kitchen is clean and clear, pristine like it’s never been used. The view from the window goes all the way across the state line to New Jersey. But my attention is caught by the dark painting hanging on the one wall that interrupts the window—huge and square and made up entirely of angry black shades.
Nick comes back with a folded piece of paper. “Couple of nights ago, some courier dropped off a letter for me. Haven’t tracked him down yet, but Jonesy said he’d keep calling around, see what he could find out. Anyway. Here.”
He hands it to me. I unfold it with my eyes still on him, then drop my gaze to read the five words printed in the middle of the page, Times New Roman, 12 point.
I know what you did.
I stare at it a while, as though continuous staring might help it say something different. Anything different. “What the fuck,” I murmur at last, and it’s not a question.
“Yeah. My sentiments, too.”
I look up at Nick, who’s standing over me behind the white leather couch. “Do you think…”
“Yeah.” He sits down in the one-seater opposite and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah, I do.”
“But…” I swallow, the panic of that whole night threatening to swell up in me again.
“I don’t know who it is. Whoever they are, they got a fuckin’ death wish, because if this is referring to what we both think it is, I’m gonna kill them when we find out who they are.” I swallow again. He sounds completely matter-of-fact. But it’s the truth. Nick Fontana is not going to fuck around over something like this.
Still. He shouldn’t be saying shit like that to me. Attorney-client privilege covers things he’s done, but not things he’splanningto do. “I’m going to assume you’re speaking metaphorically,” I say, my voice sounding as hoarse and strangled as it did back on the one night I hoped would never come back to bite me in the ass. Looks like it has. “Did you…talk to Don Morelli?”
Nick shakes his head slowly. “By the time we got back to New York, I figured it would be smarter to keep my mouth shut. Luca’s got so much shit going on, he doesn’t need this as another consideration. And besides…it all seemed to blow over. No one can prove anything. Most people think Gatti got cold feet, did a runner. And it’s not like anyone’s gonna talk to the cops about it. Right?”
My mouth falls open. “But Don Morelli needs—”
“He needsfocus. He doesn’t know about Gatti, and the time to tell him has passed. Understand?”
I nod my head slowly. “But we still need to deal with this.”
“Yeah, we do.” Nick stands up, comes over to me where I’m sitting on the couch, plants his hands either side of my head and leans in. I let my lips fall open, wet and waiting, like he’s going to kiss me. But he’s not going to kiss me. “So let me ask you this, Bianchi. Who you been shooting your mouth off to?”
