I’ll plead my case with Luca tonight. And whatever he says or does, whatever punishment he gives me for being so dumb for so long, I’ll take it happily. I ponder that as I get ready, as I kiss Carlo goodbye and promise to text him when I’m on my way back, as I drive out toward one of the Brooklyn warehouses. I think about how much I’ve envied my brothers for the relationships they found, although I’ve never admitted it to myself. Even Angelo Messina, with all the mess his love affair made—I’ve wished more than once that I could’ve had what he had.
And now it’s within my grasp. For perhaps the first time, I feel hopeful about the future. Making Underboss isn’t even on my radar now, because my focus has changed. It’s not just about staying out of the joint anymore. I want to enjoylife. Enjoy Carlo. Enjoy what we’re going to build together between us.
I park the car outside the warehouse, and sit there for a moment, smiling to myself as I replay Carlo telling me he loved me for the first time. I get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath of the muggy night air, and feel something inside me unknotting, giving way.
* * *
I circlethe perimeter once to be certain no one has followed me, and then I make my way inside. I’m at the warehouse right on time, but I seem to be the first one there. For a moment, I think I must have the wrong one, because it’s all dark. Usually Vitali is first on the scene by a long way, checking out security before the Boss arrives.
But then: “Fontana,” his voice calls from deeper within the warehouse.
“Vitali?” I call back. “How’d you know it was me?”
“New security cameras. I can see who’s arriving from my phone. Come on over, let me show you.” With great clunking noises, the overhead lights come on, making the place not any less creepy, but a little easier to get through. I make my way to the labyrinth of shelving and boxes to see Vitali standing under one of the spotlights, thumbing through his phone casually, not even looking over as I approach.
“Did I get the time wrong?”
He looks up, raises an eyebrow, and looks at the gun in my hand. “Why the hell you got that out?”
I holster it, feeling like a fool. “Something just seemed—”
“Here, take a look,” he says, and throws his phone toward me. I dive forward to catch it, fumbling it into my hand, and then I realize what Vitali’s actually doing
Before I can react, before I can pull my own gun again, he’s whipped out his own, and it’s trained right at me, between the eyes. “Don’t,” he warns, as I make a movement. “Don’t do it.”
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, putting my hands up in the air. If I were closer to Vitali, I could probably take him—he’s smaller than me and skinnier—but he’s a dead shot, and while he hasn’t pulled the trigger yet, he’s not the kind to hold a gun on someone just for kicks.
“Come on, now,” he says easily, “you had to know this was coming.”
I take a step back, try to make it look like I’m just shifting my weight, but the cold press against the back of my head tells me someone else is there, also with a gun, and if I tried to turn fast and disarm them, I’d only end up with a bullet in my back from Vitali.
“Don’t fuckin’ move, you piece of shit,” sneers the man behind me.
Great. I could handle meeting my end at Vitali’s hands, but Al Vollero, for Christ’s sake? That’s not how I want to go out. Even Snapper Marino would be a better choice. And speak of the devil—who walks out of the shadows but Snapper himself, also with a gun, also pointing it straight at me. Well, it figures Snapper would be here. He and Vitali are related, after all.
“Okay,” I say calmly, keeping my eyes on Vitali. “I’ve got my hands up, don’t I? Let’s talk this out like the civilized gentlemen the Boss wants us to be.”
Vitali huffs through his nose, his smile crooked and regretful. “Who do you think ordered this, Fontana?”
Chapter Forty-Five
Carlo
After Nick leaves, I really do try to get some work done remotely. The problem is, the final contracts that Miranda got Luca to sign aren’t in our system yet, and I really want to check them over before final filing. If she’s changed something fundamental, I need to know. It’smyhead on the chopping block if this blows up somehow. Miranda might have taken over, but I’m still listed as senior legal advisor on the project, and my father will hit the fucking roof if there are any mistakes.
Not to mention Don Morelli.
“I told you to show some initiative, Winter, but damn it, I didn’t meanthismuch,” I mutter, going back through days of emails between our firm and the opposing legal team. At least she cc’d me in, I guess.
And then the horrible idea that maybe she didn’t cc me in on quiteeverythingbegins to take hold.
The problem with working at a firm like Bianchi and Associates is that you’re always paranoid. We tend to be just as secretive as our clients, and not just about the details of our cases. We’re paranoid that other lawyers are billing more hours than we are. We’re paranoid that other lawyers are trying to steal part of our caseload, or undermining us, or planning to make us look bad somehow.
That fear was why Miranda was so disbelieving that I’d let her take some of my workload this last week. I had to put my anxiety aside when I asked for her help, because I had bigger things to worry about. But now, with the blackmailer no longer a concern and my growing certainty that no one is conspiring to make attempts on my life—that it’s all just a few unconnected coincidences—the lawyer paranoia is hitting hard.
“Shit, shit,shit,” I grumble to myself. It’s still early, kind of. It’s nowhere near midnight yet. Nick’s apartment is near enough to the office that I could even be there and back beforeheis, I bet. And it’s not like I wouldn’t have protection, if that’s even something I need—I’d call for a company car. Our drivers are all qualified bodyguards as well, and there are guards all through the building in which the office is located.
I debate with myself another few minutes, but in the end, the uncomfortable tickling at the back of my neck makes up my mind for me. I call a car and head to the office, giving the nightshift doorman of Nick’s building, a much younger man than Jonesy, a nod on the way out.
