Shit. Rossi’s supposed to be some mid-level dude, somebody I can talk to without every cop in Italy watching.
On the other hand, if the ‘Ndrangheta has the hot art, Morrone’s gotta know where it is.
“I’m gonna kill that bastard,” Carson yells in my ear.
Oh, great. “That’s not the plan.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Good question. I remember something Carson said when I was wrestling with her on the dance floor: I don’t fit the picture. Gianna does. Go hook up with her.
And here she is. I still feel Gianna’s body pressing against me from a few minutes ago and I’d like a repeat. But I still need Carson to make sure I survive this. Also, do I want Gianna seeing me be even sleazier than I really am? Does she need to know who that nice Mr. Rossi really is?
But… if guns start pointing at me up there, will Carson be holding one of them?
Decide.
“Same as before,” I finally tell Carson. “We go talk to the man. ‘We’ means you and me.” I step back to Gianna without waiting for Carson to react. “Will you do something for me?”
Gianna tilts up her head and turns those bottomless dark eyes on me.
Marry me dances around the tip of my tongue. Instead, I pull a business card from my wallet and press it into her warm, soft hand. “You’ve met Rossi. Can you introduce us?”
Her eyebrows climb halfway up her forehead. She glances at the card, then the window, then me, then Carson, then me again. “I have the supper with you. Alone. Yes?”
No doubt to butter me up about the gallery loan, but at this point, I’m okay with anything she suggests. “Tomorrow night?”
Gianna gives me a quick kiss, then taps my chin with the card. “I go to Rossi. Please stay.”
Watching her climb the stairs in that dress is… inspirational. When Gianna’s halfway up the second flight, Carson steps next to me. She’s sucking her virtual lemon. “Why don’t you two just get a room?”
“Play nice. We still need her.”
“We need her, or you need her?”
“This girlfriend thing. It’s cover, right? You’re not jealous?”
She shoots me a “drop it” look.
We wait for either Gianna to come back, or a squad of security apes to haul us away. Belknap’s bald head sticks out of the crowd half the building’s length away. The way he moves tells me he’s dancing. Knowing him, it’s with some woman half his age. Fine. If he’s busy scamming her, he won’t bother me. I hope.
“Here she comes,” Carson says.
Two goons trail Gianna down the stairs. She’s moving on her own, so they’re not taking her out back to shoot her. The worrying thing is seeing Belknap watch her. I realize how exposed that second flight of stairs is. It’ll be like walking on the red carpet for the Oscars.
The goons stay behind on the broad landing above us while Gianna swings down the last steps straight to me. She sets her hands on my chest and goes up on tiptoes. “Rossi will see you. I tell him you are a rich man looking for a painting to love.” She presses against me a bit tighter. “Ring me.” With one last back-off-bitch-he’s-mine glare for Carson, she disappears into the crowd. Carson gives her a look that scares me.
After wanding us both, the goons escort us upstairs. Carson maneuvers to my left side to screen me from the party floor. The last thing I need is for Belknap to see me here. Every step has a climbing-to-the-guillotine feel.
Instead of a public execution, though, we end up in a conference room. Its black-granite slab of a table holds a huge spread of food. Plush black-leather chairs line the white hand-troweled walls. Five large contemporary canvases—color-field work, nobody I recognize—hang under individual halogen spots. The indirect lighting we saw from outside defines the edge of the ceiling coffer above the table.
The racket outside left me half deaf. It takes a few moments for the gentle rustle of low conversation to dig through the ringing in my ears.
About a dozen people are here, a couple more men than women. The men are the middle-aged-businessman-here-after-work types, mostly gathered around the bar talking about manly things. The women are half their age, wear half the clothing, and are clustered around the food on the table, talking and ignoring the men. Most aren’t old enough to have to work at being pretty.
One who is—an elegant dark redhead, freckles across her collarbones, knee-length black sheath with a square neckline—zeroes in on me. What does she see? A target? A fellow scammer? I give her a slight nod and silently wish her luck. She’s got a lot of competition, and she’ll have to work hard to beat it.
A thirtyish dark blonde in a steel-gray Armani suit strides up to us. She stops, puts one foot in front of the other, and hides her hands behind her back. I expect her to sing an aria. Instead she says, “You are Mr. Hoskins?” A slight accent, brisk, businesslike. The gatekeeper?
“I am.”
“Please come.” She turns and marches toward the windows.
“Play nice,” I whisper in Carson’s ear. “I need Morrone talking.”
Carson fries me with a glance, then takes my arm. We follow the blonde to Salvatore Morrone.
“Signore Hoskins.” He’s a baritone. “Benvenuto.”
This isn’t my first gangster. That doesn’t make it any easier. Gar and I were always super careful around these dudes, more honest than with anybody else. If these guys don’t like a deal, they don’t sue or complain to the BBB—they put you in the trunk of a car going to the crusher. If you’re lucky, they’ll shoot you first.
I turn my back to the window and wipe my palm on my pants leg before we trade manly handshakes.
Thick hands. Mid-to-late fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair, freshly cut, extra salt around the ears. A heavy-featured, late DeNiro face. Aggressive eyes. The pewter-with-white-pinstripes vest and slacks are Italian design, but the way they drape over his broad shoulders and sturdy chest makes me think they’re custom. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he owns a company that does physical things—construction, trucking, meat packing—and he started at the bottom.
“Americano!” he says, beaming. His teeth are better than I expect. “I like Americani. Always so busy, making the money, making the things, changing the things.” His hand turns a circle, like the hamster wheel he’s describing. He points toward the young man behind his left shoulder. “This is Angelo, my son. He learns the business. He teaches the English to me. He teaches me good, si?”
Angelo’s a much younger, slimmer, softer version of Morrone. He’s in an abstract black-and-white Emporio dress shirt and medium-gray windowpane slacks. When we shake hands, I say, “He’s doing a fine job.” I trade smiles with Angelo; his says thanks for lying, mine says help me out here, will you?
Morrone gives Carson a slow once-over. “Prego, who is this attraente damigella?”
Once again, I wish I had a first (or last) name for her. “This is Carson.”
There’s a flash in her eyes, and I wonder if this is where she snaps his neck. Instead she pastes on a noncommittal smile and says “Pleased to meet you” in her corporate voice. She holds out a hand to shake, but Morrone sweeps it up and kisses it. Her smile freezes in place.
Once he lets go of her hand, he asks me, “Your business is what?”
“Property development. We’re looking at European models for urban infill projects. I’m here for inspiration… and maybe find a souvenir.” I wave at the nearest canvas. “I understand you’re an event planner?”
Morrone has his head cocked toward Angelo, who’s whispering in his ear. Did I just blow his English? He nods, then turns back to me. “Si. It is a thing to do for my—” a consult with Angelo “—retirement. I make this festa, ehm, party. Do you like her?”
For a moment, I think he’s asking about Carson. “It’s a great party. Very generous of AIL to sponsor it.”
“Si. The company, it makes many profits from the work. It is full of thanks.” There’s no irony in his voice.
None of the event planners I ever met could afford a multi-million-dollar art collection. Carson’s report on his investments flashes by me: construction, transport, healthcare, schools, pipelines, food delivery, temporary workers, labor unions, entertainment… Of course, Morrone probably doesn’t own any of it—his relatives do, or shell companies, or charities that never do anything charitable, or random dead people.
A young waitress in a black skirt and white button-down arrives with a round silver tray holding flutes of Champagne. The interruption’s an opportunity to think about how to get to the next step. I don’t expect to get him blabbing about his stockpile of looted art, but I need to start the con.
I snag two glasses and turn to hand one to Carson, who takes the flute like it’s gold and kisses the air in my direction. That’s more disturbing than talking to a gangster boss.
Morrone throws a summoning gesture at one of the men by the bar. “You are the builder, si? You talk to mio fratello. He knows this business.”
Lucca Morrone looks just like his picture. He’s a few years younger than Salvatore, a couple inches shorter, and has a good start on a gut. The snug gold-tone dress shirt isn’t doing him any favors. The moment he sees me, his eyes go hard and narrow. I’ve been doing okay up to now, but I seriously don’t need open hostility from a mobster.
My dad was a commercial contractor before his world fell apart. He built small stuff like gas stations and fast-food places, 7-Elevens, the odd mini-mall. I absorbed the subject like I do everything else, plus I still try to keep up with architecture. I can talk like I actually know what I’m saying, which I even sort-of do.
I try to chat with Lucca about business for a few minutes. His English is a lot better than his brother’s, but he says as little as he can get away with. He manages to not mention exactly what he does for AIL, big surprise.
Partway through a stop-and-go discussion of brownfield remediation, Carson snuggles up to me and trails a hand down my chest. “Darling,” she coos, “this is where I find something interesting to do. Can you do without me for a while?”
The hand’s totally distracting, especially when it hooks a finger in my waistband. Hoskins considers patting her manfully on the butt, because that’s what guys like him do. I’m the one who’ll lose the hand, though, so I go for a one-armed, around-the-waist squeeze instead. “Sure, honey. Don’t go too far.”
She pecks my cheek and saunters toward the bar, putting more swing in her hips than I’ve seen on her before.
Morrone watches her go with appreciation. “That is a woman, si?” he says once Carson leaves hearing range. “Very strong, very… sensuale. She gives you strong bambini, si? All sons, I think. I miei complimenti, signore.”
I try looking at Carson through Morrone’s eyes for a moment. She’s standing tall by the bar, nursing a drink and surveying her domain. The downlighting accents curves that don’t need the help. I wouldn’t have put “Carson” and “sensual” in the same sentence before now, but… hm.
I finally turn back to business. “Lucca, do you collect art too?”
Lucca puts on an empty smile. “No, it is not my interest.”
“I tell Lucca, buy the art,” Morrone says. He claps his brother’s shoulder. Lucca looks like he has gas. “But mio fratello, he buys only the automobili. I tell him, no painting is, ehm, distrutto—” Angelo jumps in “—wrecked, si, by the taxi.”
The patient irritation at an old joke told too many times flashes across Lucca’s face for a moment. He replaces it with a not-really-smile. “I say to my brother, no painting takes me to the trattoria or the football stadium.”
Morrone booms a laugh and wraps a thick arm around Lucca’s shoulders. Lucca looks like a dog getting mauled again by a four-year-old and wondering if it’s finally time to bite.
Lucca starts interrogating me. What projects have I worked on? Who are my backers and my banks? I keep trying to change the subject to art, and while Morrone’s game, Lucca keeps lobbing in questions like grenades. He stares like he’s counting my pores. I try to tune him out and concentrate on Salvatore, but I can’t quite pull it off. What’s his problem? Does he see through my story? What’s he saying to big brother when they have their sidebars in something that isn’t quite Italian? I’m glad it’s warm in the room so I don’t have to explain the sweat on my forehead.
As we talk, the Armani blonde brings in random guys to shake Morrone’s hand and grab quick, earnest conversations. I’ve seen one on campaign posters all over town. Another was wearing a police uniform on the news this morning. It’s like that scene at the start of The Godfather where Don Corleone holds court at his daughter’s wedding.
“Is it always like this with him?” I ask Lucca as we wait for Salvatore to finish.
He doesn’t look at me. “My brother knows many people.” Lucca doesn’t approve.
A guard snags the Armani blonde as cop-in-a-suit leaves. She bows her head to listen, then marches to the door. It’s open only a few seconds, but I recognize the guy outside.
Belknap. Here.
My heart goes into warp drive. There’s no other way out except through the window. If he gets in, he’ll recognize me the moment he sees me. Then I end up face-down in the lagoon surrounding the fairgrounds.
At the table, Carson suddenly turns toward me, showing her back to the door. If Belknap sees her face, he’ll recognize her even faster than he will me. She raises her drink to her mouth and lifts her index finger off the glass, pointing toward the door. I give her a tiny nod.
The three-way conversation with the Morrones sputters back into gear, but now I’m distracted by the action at the other end of the room. I sidestep so Salvatore’s between me and the door, just in case.
The blonde re-enters. She’s unhappy. She strides up to Salvatore. They have a whispered conversation that’s mostly him shaking his head and her making small, controlled hand gestures. Finally she nods in a halfway bow and returns to the door.
“Is there a problem?” I ask when she leaves.
Salvatore smiles—it’s a little strained—and waves his hand. “No, it is nothing. When do you leave Milano, Ricardo? I like to talk more.”
“In a few days. I’d love to—”
The door bursts open. I hear the blonde’s voice firing rapid Italian. And I hear Belknap’s voice answering in gruff Italian.
He’s in the room.
My heart had slowed to a gallop; now it’s going orbital. Just when things were going somewhere… I glimpse Carson as she slowly pivots, keeping her back to Belknap. Both Salvatore and Lucca swivel toward Belknap’s voice, which is getting closer. I risk a glance: Belknap’s in the middle of the room, his face turning scarlet. Two security guys hold his arms. Everyone’s staring at him. Salvatore says something patient and calming, then steps toward him.
I’m trapped.
I grab Angelo—who’s drifted away from his dad—and turn us both to face the windows before Belknap sees me. “Who is that?” I ask, because it’s the natural thing Hoskins would ask.
Angelo’s face is set in waiting-for-the-dentist discomfort. “He advised my father on purchasing art. They… disagreed. He is not an honest man.”
“I see.” What do you have to do to get the Mafia saying you’re not honest? Something to think about… later. We’re still in Belknap’s peripheral vision. “I should go. I wouldn’t want to embarrass your father by—”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m certain this will be settled soon. Please—”
Salvatore and Belknap are deep into a very intense, angry-sounding exchange off to the bar side of the room. The grim-faced blonde patrols behind Belknap, whose back’s now to the table. The guards flank him. Carson’s worked her way to the end of the table nearest the door. Everyone else has found someplace else to look. It’s my chance.
“It’s okay, Angelo, really.” I have to force the rising panic out of my voice. All Belknap has to do is half-turn toward the window… “I’ve been in Salvatore’s position before. I know how mortifying it is when somebody you’ve just met sees this kind of thing.” I clap his shoulder, man-to-man. “Please give my apologies to your father. Tell him I enjoyed our talk and hope we’ll meet again soon.”
Angelo nods. His eyes have been flicking between me and the low-volume argument across the room. “Of course, sir. I appreciate your discretion. I can tell that my father enjoyed speaking with you. Most of the people he speaks with about art want to sell it to him.”
We shake. When I turn to go, I notice Lucca standing halfway between me and Belknap, squinting at me like he’s got a sniper scope. He’ll just have to stew—I need to get out now.
Carson’s talking with a pair of women in short, sequined shifts at the dessert end of the table. They’re pretty, underfed, have high Slavic cheekbones, and neither looks a day over eighteen. They’re like stick figures next to Carson. Her back is still toward Belknap; I doubt he’ll recognize her in that dress. I swoop in, slip an arm around her waist… then realize she’s not speaking English. That knocks my brain off its rails. What the hell?
She peeks over her shoulder at Belknap. “Took you long enough,” she hisses at me.
I whisper into her ear, “We’re outta here.”
The guards have Belknap’s arms again. He’s about to get thrown out. I’d much rather have him behind us—so we know where he is—than ahead of us.
Carson tosses a quick goodbye-sounding line to the Sequin Twins in not-English, then takes my arm. As we clear the door, she whispers, “Did he see you?”
“I don’t know.” My stomach’s curled up in a ball. “If he did, it’s all over.”