Chapter Five #2
Diego watches me over the rim of his own cup. “You have a strategy meeting with Mario at 9:00?”
I manage not to choke. Barely.
“With Mario?”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Did no one tell you?”
“No.”
“Then I am the bearer of news.”
I frown and set the mug down, reach for my laptop. “Was there a request for that?”
“Mario requests very few things.”
I look at him.
Diego’s smile turns apologetic. “That sounded less ominous in my head.”
“It was fitting,” I say before I catch myself.
He laughs again, and I turn red. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You did. That’s all right.” He’s still grinning. “He can be a bit intense.”
Of the four brothers, Diego is the least polished in the traditional corporate sense. Lorenzo has charm down to an art. Ricardo has an edge he hasn’t bothered to file smooth. Mario has whatever Mario has, which is less a personality trait and more a force of nature.
Diego has ease.
Not carelessness. Ease.
There is a difference.
“Mario asked me to bring you the security division files before your meeting,” he says. “I thought I would take the opportunity to come see you again.”
I lift my eyebrows as I sip my coffee more carefully this time.
“Our meeting was brief,” he explains, then adds, “And supervised.”
His grin appears before he can stop it.
And there is more than charm in it. There’s mischief.
I’m not sure Lorenzo would appreciate being referred to as a chaperone.
“Should I be concerned that you wanted to see me unsupervised?”
“Alas, I’ve been warned away,” he says, faking a wistful tone. “So now all I have is delivering messages and coffee.”
Warned away?
Before I can ask what that means, he continues.
“Just in time, too,” he says, going right back to teasing me.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I say, because apparently my mouth just says things without my permission now.
His brows lift slightly.
“Bad dreams,” I add quickly.
Which is so much worse.
Why would I say that?
Why not simply hand him a printed transcript of every thought I have had since meeting his brother a week ago and invite him to distribute copies?
Diego, to his credit, does not ask.
He only nods once. “Chicago does that, it seems.”
I stare at him, thrown by the answer.
“What?”
“When we first came here,” he says. “I did not sleep well either.”
That is not what I expected.
I sit back a little.
His gaze moves briefly to the window. From this side of the building, the city is brightening beneath a thin, cloudy sky. The river looks almost black between the buildings.
“It is a loud city,” he says. “Even when it is quiet. Takes time.”
Something in his voice tells me he is no longer talking only about sleep.
I look at him more carefully.
Diego Conti is not as intense as his brothers.
That does not mean he is lighter.
It may only mean his darkness sits deeper, under calmer water.
“I suppose it does,” I say.
Even with their accents, I sometimes forget that they're not from here.
They came from Naples. I can't even imagine moving from a place like that to Chicago. I can't even imagine why they would move from a place like that to Chicago.
Beautiful seaside town in Italy.
To Chicago.
“What made you guys come here?” I ask softly, not sure if it’s an appropriate question to ask.
For the first time since he stepped into my office, Diego’s expression loses all trace of teasing.
“The polite answer?” he asks.
I hold my coffee cup a little tighter. “Is there another kind?”
“There is always another kind.”
I should take that as my cue to back away from the question. I know I should. I have files to review and a meeting with Mario in less than an hour. I do not need to wander into family history before breakfast.
But Diego is looking at the city now, not me, and there is something about the quiet in him that makes me stay still.
“The polite answer,” he says, “is opportunity.”
“And the other answer?”
I could kick myself.
His mouth curves faintly, but there is no humor in it. “Necessity.”
That is all he gives me. One word that means nothing and everything.
I look down at my coffee because looking at him feels suddenly intrusive. “I’m sorry. That was probably too personal.”
“No,” he says. “It was a normal question.”
“Normal doesn’t always mean safe.”
That brings the smallest hint of humor back to his face. “Especially with my family, huh?”
I smile.
Then he sets the files on my desk, careful and neat. “Naples is beautiful. It is also complicated.”
“So is Chicago.”
“Yes,” he says. “But Chicago did not know us yet.”
There is something in the way he says it that makes the words feel less like an answer and more like a door closing, shut firmly enough that I know better than to reach for the handle and try again.
“I should let you get ready for your meeting,” he says, the ease returning to his face as if it had never left.
“Thank you for the files. And the coffee.”
“The coffee was self-defense. You looked dangerous.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
He smiles, gives the folder one light tap with his knuckles, and turns toward the door. “Start with the training policies.”
Then he is gone.
I sit there for one more second, staring at the empty doorway.
Opportunity. Necessity. Chicago did not know us yet.
The words make me a bit uneasy, and I have no idea why.
Then my email chimes.
From: Mario Conti
Subject: Nine o’clock
Ms. Murray,
My office at nine.
M.C.
His office. The site of many of my dreams.
Just great.
At least now when they keep me up at night, they’ll be accurate.
I look at the time.
8:12.
I sigh.