“Mr. Fontana’s taking care of all that, no doubt.”
“FuckMr. Fontana,” I snap, and Tramonto ducks his head. When he turns around in the seat to really look at me, amusement is making his eyes crinkle.
“Well, Mr. Bianchi, I can’t do that either. So where would you like to go?”
The last thing I want is to face the office and my father’s smug face. He thinks he’s outplayed me. Maybe he has—for the moment. But Idoneed to write up my notes from the meeting this morning. “Just take me to the damn safe house,” I mutter. I have my laptop. Maybe dunking myself neck-deep in legal details will keep my mind off everything else.
The safe house, to add insult to injury, is out on Long Island, a shitty little studio box underground with no windows, no TV, and very slow Wi-Fi.
“Dinner’s at eight,” Tramonto says cheerfully, after pushing me through the doorway. “Any special requests?”
“Is it my last meal?” I ask, staring him dead in the face.
“Not if I do my job right,” he says, grinning that damn grin.
“Then I don’t give a fuck.”
“Okay,” he shrugs. He holds out a hand. “I’ll need your phone, too, Mr. Bianchi.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Last time I gave up my phone, my father went crazy.”
“Sorry, Mr. B. Orders from the top. So you need to hand it over.” I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, raise one challenging eyebrow.
One embarrassingly quick scuffle later, I find myself phoneless.
I close the door in Tramonto’s face and I hear the mechanical lock zipping shut. I’m all alone in here. I’m essentially a prisoner of the Morellis. And Nick dropped me like a brick as soon as his Boss said the word.
So much for all hisI’ll protect youbullshit.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Carlo
At eight sharp, the door opens, but I don’t even bother to look up from where I’m lying on the sofa, moping. Right on fucking time, these mobsters. Even the delicious smell of pizza can’t cheer me up. Is this my life now? Am I going to be stuck in this stupid box working on a laptop until the Morellis need me, trot me out like a well-trained poodle to represent them to the cops, in court, wherever else they need?
The guard brings the pizza into the kitchen area and I hear him rummaging around in the cupboards, the sharp clack of plates on the counter, as if I’m so fucking precious I can’t eat pizza out of the damn box like everyone else in this City. Only I’m barelyinthe City anymore, am I? Long Island doesn’t count.
“So you gonna join me, or you gonna sulk?” says a voice, and I sit bolt upright on the sofa and stare into the one face I had resigned myself to never seeing again outside a courtroom.
“Nicky?”
I’m across the tiny room before he can get out a word, throwing my arms around his neck, and he actually lifts me up, turns, and seats me on the kitchen counter, just next to the pizza I’ve forgotten all about.
“I didn’t know you liked pizzathatmuch,” he says with a wicked grin, but before he can get any more stupid jokes out, I’m kissing him, grabbing at him, drowning in the emotions tumbling all around inside me. But I pull away as I remember how certain I was that he’d abandoned me, thump his chest softly with my knuckles. I can’t look at him. I might do something dumb, like tear up. So I grab his shirt in my fists and shake him gently. “I thought—I thought—”
He ducks down to look in my face, makes me lift my chin up again and look into his eyes. “You thought stupid things, am I right?”
I swallow hard. Nod. Kiss him again, more softly this time, so I can get myself under control before we have to talk. Remind myself that Nicky showing up isn’t a promise that I’m actually getting out of this prison cell.
“Pleasetell me you’re not leaving me in here,” I beg when I can think clearly. “Take me back to your place, or anywhere else, but I really hate Long Island.”
“You hateanywherethat’s not Manhattan.” He lets go of me for a second to rummage in his back pocket, and then holds out my phone. “We’ll need to leave it turned off for the next few days,” he says apologetically, “but before I do, I figured you’d want to check it one last time.”
I grab my phone from him and stop myself from kissing it. I missed italmostas much as I missed Nicky. And what do you know, there’s a voice mail from the PI. I play it on speaker so Nick can hear, too.
Can’t find anything on a Giovanni Dellacroce past the beginning of last year. There was some trouble in California and then Nevada, but I got no confirmation one way or the other which Family had a problem with him. Bill Harris, now—I have a William Harris newly registered as the owner of an Italian restaurant that opened out in the Hamptons a few months after Dellacroce falls off the map. I’ll text you the restaurant address. No telling if this Harris is your man, but that’s the only link I could turn up. It’s too common a name for much more. So we’re square, now, Bianchi. Don’t call me ag—
I cut the message off. “The Hamptons,” I say, looking at Nick.
