Page 21 of The Price of Power

“This is Angel Enterprises?” I asked. The men nodded. “Then I’m where I’m supposed to be. My name is Olivia Collins.”

I held out my hand, and the man who was apparently acting as their spokesperson hesitated a second before taking it. He introduced himself—Anthony Silvestri—in a stern tone and with a firm handshake. The rest of the men stayed quiet.

Another intimidation tactic? Probably. But I was more determined than ever not to let my nerves show. I walked over to the table—the only piece of furniture in the room—and set my bag down on top.

“Collins?” Silvestri arched a brow at my last name. “You’re related to Theo Collins.”

“I’m his sister,” I said, pulling my laptop, paper files, and notepad out of my bag and arranging them neatly in the spot I’d claimed at the table.

The men looked at each other.

“And when will Theo be joining us this morning?” he asked.

“I’m afraid he won’t be,” I said, pulling off my jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. Even though it was only mid-morning, the room clearly didn’t have proper ventilation and was already overly warm and stuffy. “I’m here today acting as a representative for both my family and Collins Liquor Distribution Limited.”

Some of that confidence I’d been feeling a moment before started to slip away as the men shared another look. Clearly, that answer wasn’t the answer they’d been hoping to hear.

“I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding,” Silvestri said. “Mr. D’Angelo isn’t interested in meeting with the Collins family as a whole or with an agent for the company. He’s made it clear he’ll only speak to your brother directly.”

Mr. D’Angelo? Why did that name sound so familiar? Whatever it was, a cold prickle of concern ran up the back of my neck.

“Well, I’m afraid that Theo had too many commitments on his calendar to make it here today,” I said, lying out my ass. For all I knew, he was spending the day speedboating on Lake Michigan. “So when Mr. D’Angelo gets here, you can let him know that if he wants to discuss this current financial situation, I am the best he’s going to get.”

I did my best to sound firm even though I was starting to get shaky. The longer I spent in this room with these men, the more convinced I became that something wasn’t right.

And the feeling only grew stronger as all three men stared at me with open shock for a moment. One even had his mouth fall open.

“You’re sure that’s what you want me to tell him?” Silvestri asked.

Well…not anymore. But it was too late to take it back now. The only thing I could do was double down and nod.

Then, the moment the men turned their backs to me, huddling up to whisper about this new development, I quickly pulled out my phone and looked up the name D’Angelo on the internet.

The first page was nothing but recent news articles about the mob family. The New York mob family.

No. It couldn’t be.

My brother might be a Grade A dipshit, but not even he was stupid enough to take out a loan from the mob.

Was he?

True fear began to bubble up in my veins as I scanned the headlines.

Apparently, the previous boss of the family had been killed by his nephew a little over a month ago in a violent takeover of the criminal enterprise. By the sheer volume of articles I scrolled through, it had been a massive story here in New York. No doubt I’d heard rumblings back in Milwaukee but hadn’t paid much attention. Crime news had never interested me.

Like I’d told Gabriel last night, I liked my world boring.

But the tickle of trepidation creeping up my spine warned me it might not stay that way long.

I raised my head to look at the men conversing in the corner. When I’d stepped inside this “office,” I’d assumed they were lawyers or maybe accountants like me. But now I took a closer look.

Sure, their suits were finely tailored, Italian probably, but all that meant was they had access to money. If they were accountants and lawyers, they were the brawniest white-collar professionals I’d ever seen. I’d never met any corporate types with necks that thick and hands that meaty.

And were those bruises on one of their knuckles?

Oh, God.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, shooting up from my seat at the table. “Is there a place where I might make a private phone call?”