Chapter 7 #3
Drinks arrive. I do not touch mine until Stefano gives the smallest nod. He notices. Leon notices too. Let them see what they expect: a woman controlled enough to obey, attached enough not to resent it, where anyone can use the resentment.
The conversation turns to the raid.
Leon plays irritation well, but not concern. He talks about lost money. Broken trust. Federal interference. Men who got spooked and ran. He doesn’t mention the women who were dragged off that stage. He doesn’t mention the children either. At least, not directly.
“Miami was supposed to be clean,” one of the men says.
“Miami is clean when people respect the rules,” Stefano says.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “Someone talked.”
“Someone always talks.”
“You hear anything?”
Stefano lifts his glass. “Only that the Bureau came in stronger than usual.”
Leon’s gaze sharpens. “You left fast.”
“I got what I paid for.”
His words move across me like cold water, and I concentrate on keeping my face soft.
Leon glances at me. His gaze doesn’t linger this time. “Lucky timing.”
“I dislike wasting money,” Stefano says.
“And what about the rest of it?” another man asks. “The transfers? The back-end arrangements?”
Leon’s mouth tightens before he covers it with a sip of whiskey. “Some assets were delayed.”
Assets. Not children. Not his son. Not his daughter. Just assets.
My nails press into the palm of my hand beneath the table, and Stefano’s hand finds the back of my neck.
To the room, it is a caress. Casual. Possessive. A man touching what sits beside him because he can.
To me, it is a command. Hold.
Leon keeps talking. “A few things are missing. Nothing that can’t be recovered.”
Stefano’s fingers rest lightly below my hairline. “Missing things have a way of losing value if they stay gone too long.”
Leon’s eyes cut to him. “Depends what they are.”
“Or who took them?” The air tightens between them.
There it is. Just enough pressure to see where Leon bleeds.
Leon smiles. “You offering to help me look?”
“I am offering to listen if there is profit in it.”
“That sounds like Savarese generosity.”
“I have never been accused of generosity.”
The men laugh, as if the situation is amusing.
I sit between them, breathing through my nose, counting exits without moving my eyes.
Two guards near the glass. One by the stairs.
One bartender watching closely. Omar is not visible, which means he is somewhere useful.
Stefano’s hand is still on my neck. Leon’s ring finger tapping against his glass.
He is agitated. I want him worse than agitated. I want him afraid.
The conversation shifts, circles, returns to the matter at hand.
Stefano says little and learns more from his silence, because men like Leon cannot stand silence when they think the room might be doubting them.
Leon talks around the missing children without naming them.
Private matter. Family issue. Transport problem.
Loose end. Each phrase lands like a hand around my throat.
Leon stands with him. “A private word?”
Stefano looks at me. My stomach drops before my face can react. No.
He told me to stay close. He made a point of it. Stay close. Do not improvise. Lean in. Listen. Watch. Now he is leaving me here. The bastard.
His hand leaves my neck and comes to my chin, two fingers beneath it, lifting my face toward his. To the men around us, the touch is intimate enough to make looking away polite. To me, it serves as a reminder that he can turn my attention wherever he wants.
“Stay here,” he murmurs.
“That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
“You said stay close.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
His eyes hold mine. “Now I need to see what you do when you’re not.”
I go cold. Not as a result of fear. But understanding. This is a test, perhaps a trap. Most likely both.
“You are enjoying this too much,” I say softly.
“Yes.”
He lowers his mouth near my ear, his voice meant only for me. “Do not improvise.”
“You brought the wrong woman.”
“I know.”
Then he straightens, gives Leon a pleasant look that contains nothing pleasant at all, and follows him toward the smoked-glass partition at the back of the VIP area.
I remain seated. Not alone. Not truly. Stefano’s men are somewhere. Omar is somewhere. Stefano can probably still see me from wherever he goes because men like him do not leave valuables unattended unless the trap around them has teeth.
But socially, publicly, deliberately, I have been left exposed at a table with men who watched me be sold two nights ago. The performance is no longer theoretical.
The man to my left shifts closer almost immediately, and I recognize him from the auction, too. Older. Silver at the temples. Wedding ring. Soft hands. The kind of man who probably calls himself civilized because he pays other people to do the hurting.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, lingering with the same oily interest I remember from the stage.
“So,” he says, smiling as he reaches for my wrist. “Does Savarese let his new toy speak when he’s not in the room?”
His fingers close around my skin. I look down at his hand. Then back at his face.