Page 6 of Capo
Gayle laughs. “Yep. There and—”
“Do we even want to know?” asks Rebecca.
Gayle throws us a look full of mischief and purses her lips. “Fine. I need a drink. Sally!” She gestures to get the attention of the bartender who immediately drops whatever she’s doing and comes darting.
“Gimme something sweet and strong.”
“Will do, hon,” says the bartender with a husky voice that sounds like she lives on whisky and cigarettes.
“You’ve got some pull,” says Rebecca, her eyebrows shooting up on her forehead. “We had to wait forever.”
Accepting an orange-red drink in a tall glass, the ice rattling as she pulls it to her, Gayle waves dismissively. “We play here a lot, girl. Gives us some perks.” She winks and takes a long sip through the straw. “So what are you up to? What are we talking about? Who are we doing?”
“How pissy our day has been.” Rebecca clinks her glass to mine and Gayle’s and raises it in a toast.
“That’s depressing. No guys? No fun? What’d you do today?”
“Let’s talk about your mysterious hook-up,” I say to try to draw attention away from the creepy feeling that has set root in my chest.
A shit-eating grin spreads on Gayle’s face. “He does like my new piercings.”
“Get the fuck outta here with your self-mutilation.” Rebecca wrinkles her nose. Self-consciously I finger the little diamond on the side of my nose.
Gayle laughs. “In fact—” She bites down on her lower lip as she winks. “It was he who demanded them.”
I gape. “He can’t do that! That can’t be legal.”
Gayle raises her eyebrows. “I’d say half the things we do would be frowned upon by law enforcement.”
Rebecca and I spend the rest of the night trying to get our friend to tell us more, but she clams up again. Wine, music, and good company relax me and as I catch a cab my mind feels light again.
Luciano
The slam makes the windows rattle. I reach for my gun in its harness under my armpit, pull it out and let it rest against my thigh, out of sight from whoever might enter. If anyone came here with ill intentions they’d be dead before they reached the front door, but one can never be too careful.
Upset male voices echo in the hallway.
“Christian!”
Ivan’s voice is loud enough to boom through the heavy oak door. He rarely raises his voice, and when he does I always pay a little extra attention.
I relax and put away the gun. My nephew won’t actually make an attempt on my life, even though we’ve had our disputes over the years, some of them leaving bruises on both skin and ego. Throwing my feet up on the desk, I put my hands behind my head and lean back as I wait.
It takes one more second, then the door slams open and Christian Russo storms in with death in his gaze. He stops and glares at me, his chest heaving.
I gesture toward him. “Close the door, Christiano.”
He reaches behind him and shoves it closed so hard the antique marble statues on the bookshelves rattle.
I throw up my hands. “Dio Mio, nephew. What seems to be the problem?”
“Don’t fucking ‘nephew’ me, you shit.”
“I should have you shot like the rabid dog you’ve become. Mind your fucking language when you speak to me.” I swing my legs off the desk and sit up straighter as I pull out a drawer, reach for a cigar and my Zippo.
Christian pushes a hand through his too-long, messy and unwashed hair and walks up to me, falling down in a chair on his side of the desk. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“Are you sober?” I cut the cigar, light it up carefully and finally get to fill my mouth with the earthy tasting smoke before I blow it out toward the ceiling.