“Winter,” I sigh. “Please.”
“I’d be happy to vet a suitable contractor as a bodyguard, since of course we wouldneverwant to bother the Morellis with this,” Miranda continues, walking with me to the elevators, keeping up with my fast pace.
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t need protection. I’ll leave my phone on. And I’ll check in regularly with my secretary when I’m away from the office.” Each of those statements is an untruth, but at least I can take care of getting protection on my own.
Looks like I’ll be taking Nick up on his offer to play house for the next few days after all.
Chapter Twenty
Nick
I’d just finished a good steak and was settling in to watch the late-night sports wrap-up when I got the call from Carlo. He explained the situation enough that I could see what to do about it before he’d finished talking, and right now I’m running upstairs to his apartment door, my car blocking the fire hydrant on the street below. Hell, if I get a ticket at this time of night, at least I know Bianchi can get me out of it.
The door, when I reach it, is ajar. I push it all the way open while I take out my gun, noting that the jamb has splintered on the inside. Someone kicked the door in, hard. Suddenly it doesn’t seem like thetiny snafuCarlo made it out to be on the phone.
My protective instincts kick into high gear. I slide quietly into his living room and scare the shit out of him when he turns around to see me with a gun pointed at him.
“Fuck me fuckingdead, Fontana,” he spits, clutching at his heart. “What thehellis wrong with you?”
“I could ask the same,” I say, holstering. “Why the hell are you standing around with your door kicked in, letting people sneak up behind you?”
“Because I’m not James freaking Bond?” he grumbles, and hoists a suitcase into his hand. “Anyway, if there’s really someone after me, I don’t see how a broken door is going to hold them back.”
“Is there?” I ask, and then clarify, “Someone after you.” He shrugs, acting careless, but I can see the strain around his mouth, the watchful, scared look in his eyes. Plus there’s a red mark across his cheek. I walk up to him and grab his chin. “Did someonehityou?” My voice is rising.
“Yeah, my father.” He pulls his face away. “Forget about it.”
There’s no way I’ll forget about it. But I let it go for now. “Where’d you tell everyone you were staying?”
“Hotel. Until the door gets fixed.”
“You’re staying with me until this business is over,” I tell him. “No arguments.”
“That was my plan, too,” he agrees heartily. “Hence the suitcase, Big Guy. So let’s get out of here. And tomorrow, like we said, we start working on things my way. Agreed?”
I look him head to toe. The man is clearly terrified, but he’s not crawling to me begging for help. He’s standing on his own two feet, making demands of me like he thinks he’s in charge. Anyone else—anyone in my crew, any one of my enemies—I’d show them what happens when they think they can run things. But coming from Carlo Bianchi, I just admire it.
He’s either braver than I thought or stupider, and he’s pretty damn smart, so…
“Agreed,” I say. “But don’t call me ‘Big Guy.’ Let’s go.”
“Oh, shit—one more thing.” He jogs back into his bedroom and comes back out with a small carry-on which I happen to know contains a bunch of sex toys. Carlo has his kinky side.
“Really?” I ask.
“I don’t want anyone nosing around in them,” he says defensively. “If the guy comes back, I mean.”
I almost point out that any returning assassins will probably have more urgent matters on their mind than his butt plugs. But then he might leave them behind. “Let’s go,” I say, jerking my head.
“By the way,” he says once we’re driving away from his apartment, “my father kind of knows about us.”
* * *
By the timewe get back to my place, it’s late, and Carlo has laid out what happened tonight when he got back to his office, including exactly what he said to his father about us. I don’t like it, but he assures me that his old man is not going to spread it around. “Reputation, Nicky. It’s the only thing he cares about.”
It’s a familiar enough mindset to me that I have to agree with his assessment: Larry Bianchi is unlikely to spread this news to anyone else. Still, I don’t like to think the old guy made us so fast. If he twigged, who else might have? On the other hand, at least he didn’t pin us to the Gatti situation. And it looks like our potential alibi will hold up, if Carlo and I ever need to draw on it.
Carlo drops his suitcase on the floor and collapses onto the sofa with a sigh. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and stifles a yawn.
