Beg Me

In and out. That’s all I owe Byron. Then I can go to Rocco’s office for some in and out of my own.

A valet parks our car. Two different men escort me to the elevator inside Byron’s building. It’s not needed. I know the way.

I used to have an office here myself. Byron put an end to that.

Again, once dad died, Byron offered me some time off to grieve. When I declined, he insisted.

He took the company and made it into his own. This is Ricky Napolitano’s son we’re talking about here.

Who’s Ricky Napolitano? He’s Detroit’s worst nightmare, a t

otal basket case, who ruined the Napolitano name. For a while, he was a king. Then he disappeared.

Ding!

The elevator stops and jolts us forward. I walk out the door, and the two men stay behind. I can see Byron’s office at the end of the hall. His name plate is surrounded by two gold dragons.

Two more men stand in front of the door, acting as guards.

I don’t say a word to the men. I grab the door handle, but they push me back.

“Excuse me. I’m here for a meeting,” I say. “Please move aside.”

I check my phone again. It’s nine.

“Is Mr. Napolitano expecting you?” the ogre on the right asks me.

He’s tall, very tall, and when he looks down at me it’s like the complete opposite of how Rocco makes me feel.

“I’m a Napolitano too, you idiot,” I say. “You called me here. Can you get his attention and tell him I’ve arrived?”

A voice echoes behind me, and I soon hear the click from heavy boots against marble. “My men aren’t idiots, Madison,” the voice says.

I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. I pivot, only to find Byron staring back at me, smiling.

“Byron,” I sigh. “Hello.”

He’s a shorter man. He used to have platinum blonde hair, but after years of going to bad salons, his hair has turned a grayish hue.

He’s covered in gold.

Around his wrist is a gold watch, his necklace is gold, his rings are gold, and he even has one gold tooth. In short, he’s the new face of the company.

Very modern, right?

“Darling,” he says, kissing both of my cheeks.

I shudder when I smell his breath. It’s like a mix of old food and alcohol.

“How are you?”

“I’m holding up,” I tell him. “Why’d you call me in today? What’s the news?”

“I wanted to speak to you about some private matters,” he says, opening his door. He puts his hand in front of himself, motioning for me to enter the room first. “Sit down, sit down.”

I sit in one of his “luxury chairs,” and ask him, “What sort of private matters?”

He closes the door and locks it, winking. It’s a habit for him to lock any door he’s behind, but it doesn’t make me feel too great.