If I’d liked him even alittleless than I had, maybe I would have done all that. But he had a charm about him that made him more interesting than a one-time hookup—made him trouble, just like he’d said.
If Legs Liggarihadsent someone out last night to keep an eye on me, I would have been in a whole world of problems.
That was when it struck me that I’d forgotten my damn hat at the bar last night, which just showed how right I’d been to leave. A man who could make me forget my hat reallywastrouble.
I gave one last thought to that face of his, those full lips, bunching up in a promising way as he’d looked me over while I talked. The full brows, the carefully-messy brown hair that was longer than most guys his age wore it right now. He’d looked like a baby James Dean, a kid playing rebel. But those lovely eyes, thick-fringed and dewy in the dim lights of the bar, had held mine without a trace of fear.
Evenafterhe’d seen my gun.
And the way he’d bent over the bar to get that drink for me, waving his ass around to make sure I paid attention…
I shook off the memories when my phone buzzed. Instructions had come through, so it was time to go to work and quit dreaming of things that would never be. But when I read the text, I headed back into the bathroom to shave after all.
I’d been summoned by Don Castellani.
* * *
Ciro Castellani lived in a place he called Redwood Manor, or maybe that had always been the name of it, and he’d just adopted it. Whichever it was, the house and grounds were situated in one of the older parts of the city, the parts that were usually less flashy and kept behind high walls, because the people there didn’t feel the need to show off their wealth. The neighborhood was quiet and people kept themselves to themselves.
It wasn’t the celebrity part of town, is what I’m saying. The Boss lived large, but he lived quiet.
When I pulled up in front of the main house, I was greeted by two house guards, who turned me around and put me up against the car to pat me down.
My old Pinto looked proudly shabby against the visual background of the marble fountain—Venus in a half-shell, which always made me crave scallops—and the lush green gardens that I’d driven past on my way up the winding driveway. I looked down between my feet as I was patted down, and spotted a small weed that had dared to poke its way through the fine white stones of the drive. It was too green against the white, too noticeable, so I shuffled a few stones over it to give it a chance to live a little longer.
The house guards took their time patting me down. “Do I have to pay extra for a happy ending?” I asked when they finally finished. When I heard a braying laugh from the front door, I itched to grab back the gun they’d taken off me.
Anthony “Dizzy” DiNunzio, a big ugly fucker with a taste for violence, came stamping down to us. Once upon a time the Boss had asked me to train him as a hitman, but Dizzy wasn’t the kind of guy who likes to keep to the shadows in the first place, and his height and width made him too memorable.
Dizzy had ended up a bodyguard, but he’d never forgiven me for nixing his hitman career, a role with more status than bodyguards were afforded in the Castellani Family. Now that I was lower down than him, he took great pleasure in treating me like shit.
He strolled up, smirking at the way the house guards moved out of his way. “I got a bet for you, Jacopo. A hundred says I could outrun that shitty car of yours—on foot.”
“Bold words for a babysitter.” His lips pulled back in a warning snarl, but I just grinned. “Howisthe bodyguard life these days, Dizzy?”
He got a sly, cagey look that only made me want to kill him more. “Pretty good, Jacopo. Since you ask. Pretty fucking good.”
We eyed each other for another few seconds. He knew something I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction. “Stay sharp, Dizzy,” was all I said, brushing past him and into the house.
“Like a stiletto, Jacopo.” His sniggers drifted after me.
* * *
The foyer of Redwood Manor was designed to leave visitors uncomfortable as well as give them a chance to admire the wealth and taste of the occupant. There were no seats and the floor was cold, unyielding Italian marble. I stared at the portraits and landscapes that adorned the walls like a gallery, wondering if they’d be more impressive if I knew less about art.
As it happened, Ididknow art. But I didn’t like these pictures much.
Back when I was close with Sandro, when I was high up in the Family, I’d been here a lot. These days I was rarely invited, and never treated as more than a grunt. Not long ago, I’d come here when Angelo Messina and his boyfriend were in town. Legs had been pissed that I was the one assigned to help them out, and dumb enough to miss the subtext.
Because I’d gotten the impression Don Castellani wanted to show his nice side to the Morellis, and that meant paradingmein front of them.
It didn’t occur to Legs what I had in common with our guests. Sandro or Julian would have worked just as well, if either of them could have been trusted. But Ciro Castellani did not trust his heir, Alessandro, to act with restraint, and we all knew what Julian was like. Julian tended to go…off-script.
“Jack,” said a voice from above, and I looked up, startled, to see a flaxen-haired man staring down at me.
Speak of the devil. “Julian.”
“Did Ciro call you in?” he asked. He was leaning over the balcony, so far that I wanted to bark at him to be careful. At least he was clothed. Julian had a preference for nudity that had become almost mundane these days. As for the cock cage he’d been parading last time I’d seen him, I could go a long time without seeingthatsight again.
