Smoke sits back in his chair, having summoned me like he’s the master, and I’m his Igor. Trinity sits across from him, looking up with innocent eyes. I release a weight-of-the-world exhale. They’re up to something.
“There’s something I need you to do,” Smoke says.
Furious, I explode. “Are you fucking kidding me? The last time you said those words, you had me stay away from Ivy. No calls. No contact.”
He glares at me, heated and unamused, as his eyes roll over to Trinity. Obviously, she didn’t know. Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, dumbass.
Trinity smacks him hard upside the back of his head. I smile with delight.
Smoke growls. “As I was saying, I have a job for you.”
My ears perk up. Am I roughing up someone? Because all my pent-up frustration could sure use an outlet. I say a silent prayer. Please let it be Enzo.
“Andre is being nice. Too nice,” he sneers. “Find out why.”
Underwhelmed, I decline. “I’m chief of security, not the figure-out-Andre lackey. You need him shot? I’m your guy. You need him psychoanalyzed? Call Dr. Phil.” I crack my knuckles. “Are we done?”
Trinity sits straighter. “Ivy isn’t coming to Erede al Trono. Please find out why.”
Fuck, I don’t know how to say this, so I blurt it out. “She’s not exactly baring her soul to me these days, Trinity.”
She frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry, Leo. I didn’t know. She said you sent her beautiful flowers, and I thought—”
“What else did she say?” I ask, needing reassurance…a sign…just one glimmer of hope.
Trini thinks about it for a moment, sifting through what she can tell me and what she can’t. “She didn’t know you wrote in a diary.”
“You write in a diary?” Smoke asks, chuckling.
“Edison and Darwin both kept diaries,” I fire back.
“So did Kahlo and Da Vinci,” Trini adds because she’s my favorite.
“You see?” I say to Smoke. “I’m right up there with Edison and Da Vinci, so fuck off.” My phone rings. Fuckface Derrick. I cup a hand over the phone. “I really need to take this.”
Smoke blinks. “Sure you do.”
Smoke mumbles something about Andre and Ivy as I excuse myself and leave the room. Do him a favor? Sure. When Olympic figure skating is sponsored by hell.
“What?” I bark to the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Z. You said you wanted to be informed if she ever made contact. She’s coming in.”
“Today?” I pocket a hand. “Do you know why?”
“She wants a job.” He stammers nervously. “What do I do?”
“What do you mean what do you do?” No response. “Give. Her. One.” I demand. “At twice your salary.”
“Twice my salary? But—”
“But what?” My patience is non-existent and my tone deadly.
He takes the hint. “Nothing, sir. I’ll take care of it.”