Raoul isn’t in any of the booths tonight, though. After a cursory glance around the room, I spot him in a cordoned-off section. He’s slouching in a giant red velvet wingback chair, surrounded by women. Dressed completely in black, he’s holding a whisky tumbler in one hand and a cigar in the other. Like some kind of urban emperor. Arrogant shit.
A blonde with big tits drapes herself over the side of the chair and pops something into his mouth, which he chews without looking at her.
Jesus wept!
As I head toward the area, a couple of burly bodyguards step up in front of me, barring my way.
“This is a private party, buddy,” one of them says, folding giant arms across his chest. The other narrows his eyes on me. Getting into the place required a pat-down at the door, but he’s obviously checking me out for suspicious bulges.
“I’m here to see Raoul. He’s expecting me.” I glance past the guy to where another woman has managed to find her way onto Raoul’s lap. The first one is trailing crimson-tipped fingers down the back of his neck.
Get a goddamn room, already!
“And who might you be?” the big guy asks.
What the hell? Who are these goons? I know most of Raoul’s bodyguards, but not these. He’s clearly beefed up security. Tension is definitely running high.
“Ricci. Mateo Ricci,” I tell him, frustration welling. They obviously weren’t briefed on the evening’s schedule. Not a smart way to run a team. The bigger of the two turns back to speak to Raoul, who glances over at me and then chuckles. He crooks his finger at me and beckons.
Oh, hell no! Fucker’s gonna pay for that.
“You really need so many nursemaids?” I ask as I reach him. He curls his lip and gives a shrug.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to a chair where a dark-haired guy is sitting. I hesitate, but the guy is already scrambling to get up and make space for me.
“What you got for me?” I get straight to the point. I don’t plan to hang around here for longer than necessary.
“Let me get you a drink,” Raoul says, lifting a hand. I have a snifter of Macallan pressed into my palm before I can drink. “Cigar?” Raoul asks.
“Get to the point.” I’m running out of patience. Scrap that. I never had any to start with.
“My guy struck gold.” Raoul sinks back in his seat and the woman on his lap moves awkwardly. He waves a hand dismissively and she clambers off, then steps away. The blonde recedes into the shadows too, though the pair continue to watch him hungrily. I guess it’s not too surprising. The kid’s a looker. Not that I pay much attention to other men’s looks, but I’d be blind not to acknowledge his obvious charm. If he wasn’t a mobster, he’d probably do well as a freaking underwear model. And he knows it. He’s such a dick sometimes.
“So, tell me what he found.” I take a sip of my whisky.
“I’ll do better than that,” he says. “I can show you.”
“Show me?” I raise my brows. I glance around, wondering how he plans to do that with all these people in here. The place is a mafia melting pot; Italians, Russians, Hispanics, Irish, shady businessmen… Anyone with a stake in New York crime uses Prism to broker deals, rub shoulders, grease palms. It’s a place of amnesty, where mob bosses come to do business in safety – so Raoul’s team of hired muscle seems out of place. He’s obviously been rubbing some bad people up the wrong way. Probably because nobody took him seriously till recently. He’d always been seen as Ernesto Caraldi’s bastard wannabe.
“Come with me. Bring your drink,” he says now, setting his cigar into an ashtray and rising. I feel eyes on our backs as we cross the room and leave the small cluster of hangers-on he’s managed to accumulate. We stop at a door with a keycard access slot, and he swipes a card and steps in. The muscleheads have followed us and the pair take positions flanking the door as we shut it behind us. The room is wallpapered in something that looks like red tapestry and is dominated by two large leather sofas, along with a couple of comfortable-looking armchairs. Low lighting from wall sconces gleams gives the leather a warm luster.
The inner sanctum.
As Raoul settles into one of the seats and gets comfortable, I wonder how many illicit deals have gone down in this private meeting space. Deals too secret for even the sanctuary of Prism’s exclusive dining area. Reed would piss his pants if he knew about this place. But I can’t tell him about it. Not if I want to take advantage of the benefits it offers.
“We found a couple of girls Whitlock took to his place for one of his special ‘parties’,” Raoul says.
“The country lodge?” I ask. I’ve already spoken to a woman who survived one of those freakshows at Mark Whitlock’s Hamptons manor. Aside from a trip to Columbia, he hasn’t made any moves out of town, and definitely not in that direction. So I’ve been pretty certain that if he has his hands on Andy, he hasn’t taken her out there. Thank God.
“Nope. The guy has a pad someplace in the city.” Raoul sips his drink.
“I know that. I’ve had eyes on it since Andy gave us the slip.”
“Nope. Not talking about that place. This is something he uses exclusively for entertainment,” he says. I feel a surge of interest.
“These girls know where it is?” I lean forward.
“We’ll find out in a minute.” He glances at his watch. “Should be coming in around now.”
