Chapter Sixteen
BECCA
Montclair, New Jersey
A sting of guilt scrapes across my raw nerves as I approach the entrance to the Marchesi headquarters.
Twenty-six hours after walking me out of the hospital and into our heavily guarded fortress, Gianni’s interaction with me has topped out at a few scattered hallway greetings and health inquiries.
I know he isn’t one for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but the drastic way he’s drawn inward has me on edge and worried.
So instead of waiting for him to work out whatever has him avoiding me, I’m forcing a confrontation. Maybe it’ll blow up in my face and make everything worse, but this gnawing feeling of dread in my gut won’t go away.
Taking a deep breath, I swing the heavy wooden door open, primed and ready for battle.
A few steps inside and I’m already wrinkling my nose in disgust. The Peek-a-Boo is a dimly lit cauldron of cheap lines and cheaper clientele.
Men crowd the stage in a mosh pit of mixed motives.
Some stand quietly sipping their drinks while others see how many hits their pride can take before finally calling it a night.
It’s lewd, crass, and desperate, a brick-and-mortar replica of the man who built it.
The thought of Gianni doing business in a place like this unlocks some deep-seated insecurities. I don’t care how much crystal and velvet line the place; it’s still a strip bar. There are still naked women with perfect bodies and twenty-twenty vision writhing around in front of him.
My stomach roils as a wall of eyes turn my way.
Great. More spies.
“Mrs. Marchesi,” comes a voice from behind. “Once again, you just got out of the hospital. I implore you to reconsider this and let me take you home.”
I glance over my shoulder at the human tree trunk standing behind me. Gianni didn’t pull any punches in assigning me a new bodyguard. Tazio, or Taz, as he introduced himself, is a huge man of few words who used all of them to let me know how bad of an idea he thought going to the Peek-a-Boo was.
I believe his exact words were, “Are you insane, lady?”
In another life, I would’ve happily sent him on a tailspin into sexist ideology, but he held the keys. Besides, it’s not his fault Gianni turned him into a glorified babysitter. I have nothing against him doing his job. It’s the fear of having another man’s blood on my hands.
“Taz,” I say, tilting my head, “how many soldiers would you say were involved in the caravan that accompanied us here?”
“Uh, eight?”
“Right, and how many would you say are milling around this club?”
He blinks. “Uh, five?”
More like ten, but I’ll give him a pass. I have a feeling math isn’t part of his skill set.
“So, wouldn’t being surrounded by thirteen armed men make this one of the safest places for me to be?” Before he can answer, I quickly add, “Safer than say, an isolated estate where your boss has me stashed away like Rapunzel?”
“Yes?”
I pat his chest. “Good answer.”
He looks so flustered I don’t bother asking him to help me find Gianni. After a quick wall-to-wall scan yields no sign of him, I push my way toward the bar and take a seat.
“What can I get you, doll?”
I glance up to find a busty blonde dressed in what can only be described as cellophane and fishing wire. I give her a tight smile. “I’m fine; thank you.”
“Are you sure?” She cocks her chin and grimaces as much as her Botox will allow. “No offense, but you kind of look like you could use a drink.”
My smile fades. Fuck. I forgot all the stitches and bruises make me look like Frankenstein’s stunt double.
That’s why it felt like a record skipped when I walked in.
Gianni’s men weren’t stalking me. They were wondering what wild animal I’d pissed off.
“Any beer you have on tap will be fine, thanks.”
She tosses a cocktail napkin in front of me, then disappears toward the other end of the bar. Once alone, I scrub my hands down my face. I’ve never been much of a drinker. In fact, the last time I found myself at a bar I did little more than shuffle a deck of cards and trade insults with my father.
Look how that turned out.
Sighing, I reach inside my purse, the knot in my chest loosening the moment the card is in my hand. Without a word, I tuck it between my index and middle fingers and begin to flip.
Over. Under. Over. Under.
It’s a cognitive glitch I could self-diagnose yet choose not to. So I pretend like it’s a perfectly normal habit, and not at all cloned from my patient-turned-husband. Because that would be the complete opposite of being in control.
And I’m totally in control.
I’m on my fourth rotation when the bartender reappears and slides a frothy mug toward me. “Didn’t take you for the gambling type.” At my blank stare, she nods at the card trapped between my ring and pinky fingers.
“I’m not.”
“Then why carry a playing card?”
Because it’s not just a card. It’s the ace of spades Gianni tucked into my dress along with the key to my freedom. A smart woman would’ve destroyed the damn thing weeks ago, but logic and I parted ways at the New Jersey state line.
But I can’t explain any of that, so instead, I cradle the card in my palm and offer a more palatable explanation. “I keep it with me as a reminder.”
“To never risk what you can’t afford to lose?”
Half the contents of my mug sloshes onto the bar as I take a tight grip and sling it to my mouth. “Something like that.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Gotta say, I don’t see many women hanging out in a strip club alone.”
I shrug. “I’m looking for someone. I don’t suppose you’ve seen?—”
“It seems my wife has a hard time following directions.”
The bartender’s face turns the color of dirty dishwater.
Never mind.
Sighing, I turn around to find the man in question coiled like a viper ready to strike.
He looks disheveled in a ruler-of-the-world-after-hours kind of way.
His usual black suit and tie looks run through a wind tunnel.
His tie hangs loose around his neck, one side much longer than the other, his shirt unbuttoned much further than I’d like, especially considering his hair looks like it’s been assaulted by ten acrylic nails.
But it’s his face that keeps my attention.
Dark circles under his eyes bleed down to the thickest stubble I’ve ever seen.
“Gianni, calm down…”
The bartender steps back, her palms rising.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marchesi, sir. I didn’t know she was…
” Gianni lifts a slanted eyebrow, the dark intent behind it sending the poor girl stumbling backward into a wall of liquor bottles.
“I mean. I would’ve never…” She puffs out her cheeks, a red stain taking over as she slowly exhales. “Please don’t fire me.”
Gianni’s glare never leaves me. “Go away.”
I roll my eyes and tuck the card back in my purse.
“Yes, sir.” Avoiding me, she sprints to the other end of the bar, her hand shaking as she tries to pour a shot of vodka.
The weight of the last twenty-four hours settles on my shoulders like a bag of rocks. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Because I’m tired of living in the same house and feeling like the unwanted visitor who overstayed her welcome.
You won’t talk to me. Hell, you’ll barely look at me.
I know you, Gianni. Whatever’s going on, you won’t face it.
You’ll let it fester until it ruins you and destroys us.
” I wince, those words inciting a rush of word vomit.
“Well, I’m not letting that happen. We’re not promised tomorrow, so we’re doing this today. Whether you like it, or not.”
I brace myself for another impending battle, then, out of nowhere, he nods, the darkness in his eyes settling as he takes my hand. “Come with me.”
I slide off the chair, staying quiet as he leads me away from the main floor toward a secluded back office.
The moment we walk inside, I’m taken aback.
Other than a small leather couch shoved against the wall, the only furnishings are four metal chairs and a folding game table that looks salvaged from someone’s curb.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, making his way toward a free-standing bar at the far-right side of the room. “Underwhelmed by the decor?”
I lower onto the couch with a shrug. “I envisioned something more high-tech. It seems kind of plain for the lord of New Jersey.”
Gianni tosses an amused look over his shoulder. “You watch too many movies.” My cheeks burn, a response that has him turning back to his drink with a low chuckle. “Hollywood glamorizes La Cosa Nostra , but as a whole, most of us prefer to blend in rather than stand out. We tend to live longer.”
“Of course.” An awkward silence stretches between us. I came here to demand an explanation, but now that we’re face to face, nerves take hold, causing me to skirt the topic. “I never got the chance to ask what happened with Anton and Owen.”
Weak and not at all smooth. This is going great.
His jaw is tighter than a drawn bow. “Anton thinks this Irish fuck, Dagger, is being fed information by someone on the Authority.”
“Why?”
“Some of the Five Families’ territories sit against the Rhode Island state line. He thinks one of them ran across Marcello’s side project and wanted his slice of the pie. So, instead of busting him, he did what made men do best.”
“Blackmailing Marcello with his silence?”
“It answers a lot of questions,” he says matter-of-factly. “The ease with which I was given executioner rights is unprecedented, not to mention all the notable overkill. Someone wanted to ensure my father never talked again.”
My heart leaps into my throat. It seems like with every hour that passes, there’s a new bullet fired from a new direction. The web is getting so tangled, I’m not sure who’s on whose side, or if we’re all just wound in the strings of our own messes.