As I look in, Arnoldi himself looks up from his lap—he’s sitting in a high-backed chair—and his gaze locks onto mine.
He says something I can’t hear, followed by a boisterous, “If it isn’t my meal!”
I walk toward him, doing this thing I’m pretty good at where I fake it. Just fake the shit out of whatever. No one ever knows its bullshit. Not even Alesso, I don’t think. What I do is I summon this memory of Alesso’s uncle, Zio Mark, in my head, serving the governor with a platter just like this one. It was my first day on the job, about a year ago.
I don’t go all out for Arnoldi, because that’d be weird, but I serve his platter with some finesse.
I take the top off for him, and he peers down at the platter. I take the paper cover off his glass, and he looks up at me.
“Luca Galante,” he says in a knowing tone.
Shit. My heart gives a slow throb, but I straighten up and stand before him like a soldier at attention.
“Catering for Regio’s.” He drags each word out, as if this fact is of interest to him. His eyes are so dark, they look black in the low light. I feel everyone looking at me now…as I look at him. The thick head of black hair, the high cheekbones, straight nose. He’s short, but you can’t tell when he’s seated. And it hardly matters.
I nod once. “Luigi is my friend’s uncle.”
“And who is your friend?”
“Alesso,” I say, trying to sound casual—and avoid his surname.
“Tony Diamond’s brother.” He nods and picks up his steak knife. “Good kids,” he says. “Working hard. That’s the key, you know.” His eyes bore into mine as he picks up a fork, preparing to cut his ribeye. “Hard work takes you everywhere. It’s what I tell my daughter. Have you met my daughter?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
That makes him smile. He looks to his plate, and I watch while he cuts the steak.
“Just the way I like it. Good to taste the…elemental.” He gives me a smile that’s full of shit but looks almost charming.
“Would you like anything else, Mr. Arnoldi?”
“Oh, I would like a number of things. What can you give me, Mr. Galante?” He lifts his chin, smiling at someone across the room as if he’s just told a good joke. His gaze moves back to me. “I’m fucking with you, son. Padre—” He sits slightly up in his chair, clearly looking toward one of the room’s corners. “Non vuoi cenare?”
There’s a low chuckle from someone I can’t see. Then a booming voice says, “Sto mangiando questo sigaro.”
The room rumbles with laughter. Polite or sincere?
Softly—so softly I think only I can hear—Roberto Arnoldi says, “My father won’t eat, but send him up a plate. Give it an hour.” He winks. “No one likes to feel forgotten.”
I nod and turn to go. I manage to keep my head up and my gait steady—until I’m almost to the door, and Roberto says my name. I look over my shoulder. He raises his brows as his face twists in a look that’s somehow critical and imploring at once.
“Be careful what you get involved with,” he says in whisper-quiet Italian. “I would hate for you to close doors you wouldn’t want closed.”
He lifts an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look.
I nod again, because I can’t find my tongue.Chapter TwoLucaBe careful what you get involved with. What the fuck does that mean? How does he know that I speak Italian? Does he know what I do for Tony? Why would he object? It bothers me so much, I want to chew on it for a few minutes.
There’s a stairwell in the corner, right beside the elevator. I pull its door open, finding not the standard rubber-lined cement floor but polished wood topped with thick, red carpet. The walls are papered deep gold, and the one across from me has windows punched into it.
The windows aren’t made of glass. Or if they are, the glass is distorted, so you can’t see the city outside. Just smears of yellow, green, blue, and red.
I look down into the space between the stairwell’s railings, surprised that the glossy, wood rail seems to go all the way to the bottom floor. I’m looking up, to see how high the staircase goes, when I hear a rapping sound from just above my head.
Heels. It’s gotta be.
Whoever’s wearing them is moving quickly, maybe even frantically, if the staccato of the clap clap clap clap is any indication. I realize that if the sound just started, and I never heard a door open or shut, then someone froze when I stepped onto the stairs, remained silent for the ten or fifteen seconds I stared at the window, and now they’re…running?
I strain my ears and catch some sort of sigh—it’s sharp and breathy. The heel sounds stop, and a moment later, I hear a door creak open. Whatever she’s doing, she isn’t being quiet about it.