“Ruse is up, Carla,” said Enzo, too calm. Jack’s heart stammered in his chest. “Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know a damn thing. Ronnie sent you to help, so help or get out. I don’t have all day.”
“Bossy.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get to where I am by worrying about everyone else. Come on, help me out.”
Boris caught Jack’s eye, reached for the doorknob. Heart leaping, he nodded.
The door inched open silently. Jack credited Boris’s steady hand and the militant staff—not a door in this house creaked.
They slipped free, treading carefully onto the (thankfully carpeted) landing. The grand staircase loomed before them, sweeping elegantly into the foyer, a place Carla studiously avoided whenever Jack came over. The space was too open and (he feared) too opulent. There, he would stand out like a zit among freckles.
“Servants’ stairs are over here,” he whispered, pointing down the long hallway. It seemed an impossible distance to traverse. A thousand miles and a hundred doors waited between them and the narrow stairwell.
“You go first, then,” Boris said, gesturing.
Inhaling deeply, Jack stepped into the hallway and peered over the railing to ensure that Carla and Enzo were well out of sight before he tiptoed down the hall.
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
The servants’stairs were tight and winding. Jack couldn’t imagine trying to navigate them while carrying something heavy or expensive. For all that he despised clerical work, this seemed infinitely more humiliating.
“You sure we’re going the right way?” Boris murmured, peering over Jack’s shoulder.
“I think so. This will spit us out between the kitchen and the basement stairwell.” If he remembered correctly. Carla had only shown him the staircase once before as a convenient shortcut upstairs.
Boris nodded. “Alright. Basement. Right where we wanna be.”
“Exactly,” said Jack, even though it was the last place he wanted to go.
They reached the landing and waited around the corner, pinned up against the wall, concealed by shadows.
Five minutes later, a disgruntled delivery driver hauled a case of wine inside, grumbling and stumbling as Enzo and Carla direct him to the wine rack. A second case was to be brought into the basement, where the yellow-eyed man waited.
“Just get it inside,” Carla told the driver. “I got Enzo here to help me with the rest of it.”
“You think I’m carrying that into the basement?” Enzoprotested, his voice dangerously loud. Too close. Jack shrank against the wall, praying that he wouldn’t be noticed. Behind him, Boris tensed, grabbed his arm, held onto it like the rail of a ship at storm, like Jack was the only thing keeping him from pitching overboard.
Jack tried to smile reassuringly—Boris answered with a skeleton’s grimace.
“He’s a driver. He’s busy,” said Carla. Jack could hear the too-innocent shrug in her voice. “I can’t ask him to stay here all day.”
“His job is to carry this shit,” Enzo protested, half-hearted.
Footsteps clattered past, toward the basement stairs. Jack’s shoulders sagged in relief.
“Just help me with this, and you can get back to the club.”
“Fine, fine,” said Enzo. “Tell you what, I help you with this, and you tell me what you know.”
Jack forced himself to breathe evenly. Everything would be fine. Carla knew how to handle herself. Knew Enzo. Knew how to manipulate the situation.
It was more than a little impressive, the way she lied so effortlessly, like she’d been doing it all her life. Pushing down thoughts about what else she might have lied about (what she could have lied tohimabout), Jack strained to hear the rest of the conversation. Enzo grunted and grumbled, stomping down the basement stairs, box of wine supported in both hands.
“Watch your step,” warned Carla, but it was too late; a great crashing sound echoed throughout the house, followed by a series of rapid thumps, and at last, a groan of pain that made even Boris wince in sympathy.
