There’s a click, and when next Dante talks, I know I’m no longer on speaker phone. “Do you think he killed her?”
I consider the question. Despite Don Luciani’s insistence that women were not to be touched unless proven to be an enemy, Constantin has always struck me as the kind of man who didn’t care who his fists were swinging toward. Can I imagine him killing Isa? I close my eyes and think about and… yes, I can. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if Constantin killed a woman.
“No doubt he’s bitter about me being given a position he feels is rightfully his,” I say. The elevator slows to a stop, and I hold my cell against my ear as the doors open, revealing the lobby. I scan for any sign or hint of wherever Daisy might have gone. There’s nothing.
“I’ll keep some eyes on him—trusted eyes,” Dante says.
“I appreciate it.” The doorman opens the front glass doors right as a black town car pulls up to the curb and the passenger side window rolls down, a familiar face smiling over at me. “Alonzo’s here. Gotta go. See you at the meeting.”
“See ya, man.”
I hang up and get into the back of the car. As Alonzo pulls away from the curb, I grit my teeth and try to resist the urge to check the tracking application for Daisy’s whereabouts again. I fail, but still, there’s no flashing dot on the screen to let me know that her phone is back on.
Damn. My hands clench into fists against my sides. Next time I catch her, I’m going to tie her down and insert a tracking chip beneath her skin. It would be just my luck to marry a woman with a mind of her own. Isa, at least, would have been content to take my money and do as I said.
Daisy, it seems, is a bit more of a complicated case.
12
DAISY
What is the most dangerous creature in the world when it’s pissed off?
Answer: The best friend.
The coffeehouse is a hippie-dippie-style place with two speedy workers manning the bar, their hands flying over machines and cups and mugs with such expertise that they seem to make mountains of coffee without spilling a drop. Almost as soon as those drinks are made, they’re gone, as other people pop in and grab their online or pre-ordered drinks from the counter.
I spot Michelle right away, her messy blond head a stark contrast to the dark wood at her back as she sits against the farthest wall, arms crossed and two drinks already placed in front of her.Fuck.I’d hoped if I made it here early that I could grab her regular drink and start off with at least a little leeway. She must be big mad if she’s here earlier than me.
It’s fine, I assure myself.Just fake it ’til you make it.
Pasting on a false smile, I march forward, hands clutching my purse strap. “Michelle, hey!” I hurry up to the table and drop down across from her before lifting the cup in front of my chair. “Chai? You know me so well. Thanks, babe.” I take a liberal sip and almost regret it as the scorching hot liquid nearly scalds my tongue right off. Coughing and setting the cup back down, I wave a hand in front of my face as my eyes begin to water. “Wow, that’s… good,” I say.
Michelle gives me her nastiest stink eye—the kind I know she usually reserves for assholes on the subway. Ignoring it, I glance around the coffeehouse and begin to chatter animatedly, hoping it’ll dissolve some of the tension rolling off her in waves. “Wow, this place is cool,” I say.
The coffeehouse is decorated in an antique style that makes it feel like an old, rich lady’s private home. Quiet jazz music hovers in the background, disrupted only by the occasional sharp blaring sound of the machines behind the counter. I reach for my chai again, lifting it back to my lips much slower this time as I test the heat and then take a careful sip. Michelle continues to glare at me, but she takes that moment to lean forward and lift her own cup to her lips. Eyeing me over the rim, I offer her my most sincere smile before I start talking again.
“Okay,” I say, “I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry for not contacting you before this past week.”
“Mad?” She sets her cup down. “Oh, no, I’m not mad, Daisy. I’m fucking furious.”
I wince. “Right.” I nod. “And I’m sorry.”
“All right,” Michelle snaps, arms moving to cross over her chest, making the thin, loose T-shirt she’s wearing stretch tightover her front. “Care to explain why I came home from work days ago to find all of your shit gone and a note telling me that you’d moved out?”
I shrink back into my seat at her raised brow and sharp tone. “To be fair, I didn’t move myself out,” I tell her.
“Oh, I know,” Michelle says, “but you damn well should have called me anyway. What if I’d gone to the police?”
Now that she mentions it, it was curious that she hadn’t. “Why didn’t you?” I ask.
Michelle gives me a look that is a question all on its own:Are you stupid?
“You’re married to a guy who’s in the mafia,” she whisper-hisses at me. “What the hell do you think would happen to me if the police showed up at his door? What do you think would happen toyou?”
“Giulio wouldn’t hurt me,” I say.At least, I don’t think he would.He’s taken my attempts at cooking pretty well and even given me credit cards—which I’d been hoping to start using on this outing. Maybe if I take my bestie for some retail therapy, she’ll be in a more forgiving mood. I lift my cup and take a sip before licking a bit of cinnamon off my lips.
The muscle beneath Michelle’s left eye begins jumping, seizing, and thrashing as if the dang thing is at a rave.Oh no. That’s never a good thing.
