The old man puts his phone aside and smiles at Eli. “Elliot! You’re here first.”
“Of course I am,” Eli says drily. “It’s good to see you Mr. Bianchi.”
He walks around the table and kisses the old man on both cheeks.
“You remember my brothers, Domenico Valente, Roberto Bassilotta, and Adriano Rossi?”
The old man gives each of them a friendly nod, but his clear blue eyes don’t crinkle. They stay open and cold as ice.
Eli gestures to me. “This, Mr. Bianchi, is January Whitehall.”
Mr. Bianchi gives my body another perfunctory sweep then shoots Eli a smile. “Suddenly this contract makes far more sense.”
My cheeks heat, but I stand tall. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bianchi.”
“Elliot tells me you sing.”
“I… Yes,” I say. “I love singing.”
“Perhaps if everything goes as planned, you’ll sing at my wedding to my darling Yelizaveta next summer?”
My breath catches in my throat. This old guy is getting married? And he wants me to perform there? Out of the corner of my eye, Bobby gives me a tiny nod.
“Of course,” I say with all the enthusiasm I can push into my voice. “I’d love to.”
“Excellent. Take a seat. All of you.”
Eli sits at the furthest end of the table. Bobby and Adriano take his left. I sit on his right with Doc beside me. As I settle into my seat, I see three men in black suits, blending into the dark windows behind them. Aside from the one wearing wire-rimmed glasses, they look identical. I try not to stare.
A waiter places a glass of water in front of each of us. Doc asks for beer and one is promptly brought to him. I wish I could ask for orange juice, but I don’t want to look like a child. Eli and Mr. Bianchi enter a deep conversation. It’s all gibberish to me except for random numbers and place names:‘three-sixty-five,’ ‘Tacoma,’ ‘Upper East Side.’
The minutes tick by and I wish I could take out my phone and play games, scroll social media, read the weather app,anything. The boys shift around me, irritated. This must be part of Mr. Parker’s plan. If he can’t have me, he’ll be as annoying as possible for as long as possible.
When Doc finishes his beer and the conversation between Eli and the old man is getting strained, the elevator dings. Doc presses his knee into my right leg and Eli does the same on the other side. I turn my face into a mask. I’m a pretty, vacant doll and I belong to the men around me. That’s all that matters.
Mr. Parker exits the elevator first. He’s dressed in a brown suit and boots that make him look like he’s about to go hunting. He’s brought seven men with him. I only recognize one of them, a big redhead, from the hospital. At least the Baskerville twins aren’t here. I don’t think my acting skills are that good.
“Good evening,” Mr. Parker tells the room in a loud TV presenter voice.
“Good evening,” Mr. Bianchi says quietly.
I can feel the hatred coming off the four men around me like steam hissing from a boiling pot. Doc’s shoulders have risen, and Adriano’s face is as hard as the night he pushed a gun into my mouth. Bobby is looking at his phone, but his jaw is tight enough to burst. Only Eli sits straight-backed and calm, his glittering eyes the only physical manifestation of his rage. “Good evening, Zachery.”
“Elliot.” Mr. Parker wanders closer to our side of the table. “Dom. Basher. Rossi.”
As he looks at each of my men, it’s like he makes them younger. More like teenagers than the grown criminals I’ve come to know.
Mr. Parker gives Adriano a wide-lipped smirk. “How’s the side? Any broken ribs?”
Adriano says nothing.
Mr. Parker’s gaze falls on me. As he takes in my tight, slutty dress, his loathing is bright as a star in the sky. I remember the way he looked at me in his limo, telling me we’d be married by morning. I fight back a shudder. He doesn’t leave to take his seat, just keeps staring. To distract myself, I examine his shirt. It’s purple silk and you can see his nipples through it. Mr. Parker always wears silk shirts, and you canalwayssee his nipples through them. Maybe it’s on purpose. Maybe it’s a sex thing. I bite back a snort of laughter and then, somehow, it’s easy to meet Mr. Parker’s eyes. He’s just a guy with a nipple shirt.
“Jan-u-ar-y White-hall,” he says, rolling each syllable around his pink mouth. “We meet again.”
Doc’s leg presses harder into mine, like he’s scared I’m going to run away. I toss my ponytail over my shoulder. “Hi, Zach.”
His mouth falls open, and I swear he almost lunges for me.
