Chapter 41
GINA
The next day, Thomas appears in the doorway of my office with a light knock, his navy suit jacket slightly rumpled at the elbows.
“Hello, Mrs. Ricci,” he says in that formal tone he always uses, even though I’ve told him a dozen times to call me Gina.
“I’m ready to take you to your meeting in Long Island.”
“Great!” I tell him. As soon as Professor Washington approved my project yesterday, I reached out to Mr. Dureff, hoping he would accept an earlier appointment.
Luckily, he could accommodate me.
Glancing up at Thomas, I see that his cowlick is sticking up again at the crown of his head. That stubborn tuft of dark hair he complained about last week when driving me to the office.
I told him about some drugstore products that would help, but clearly he hasn’t had time to check them out.
“Right on time. Let me call Lorenzo and tell him we’re leaving.” I reach for my phone.
Thomas shifts his weight. “Didn’t Mr. Ricci tell you? Lorenzo was called away for business at the last minute. He’s in Canada.”
“Canada?”
“He left this morning.”
I pause, a knot forming in my stomach. I’d been counting on Lorenzo being there with me today. He always knows what to say in these situations, how to smooth over awkward moments with his easy laugh and confident handshake.
With him, I never have to worry about saying the wrong thing or forgetting some crucial detail. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.
“Okay,” I say finally, swallowing hard. “That’s fine.” I fidget with the sleeve of my blouse. This is just a preliminary meeting, after all. I’ll show Eugene Dureff the replica of my sketch, ask whether the design is feasible for a mural installation, and see if anything needs altering.
Lorenzo can handle the heavier business details next time.
Still, the thought of walking into that warehouse alone makes my palms sweat.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, I grab my purse from the side table.
When I reach the door, Biscotti comes trotting toward me with his red leash dangling from his mouth.
“You sure you want to bring him?” Thomas asks, eyeing the puppy. “Long Island City’s all warehouses, belching toxic fumes everywhere. Could be loud machinery inside. Might scare him.”
I crouch down and scratch Biscotti’s ears. He leans into my touch, still hopeful.
But it’s not a good idea.
“You’re right, Thomas.” My chest tightens at the thought of leaving him behind. “I’ll be back soon,” I assure him. “I promise.”
Downstairs, Thomas opens the car door and I slide inside, the leather seat cool against my legs.
The engine purrs to life, and we’re moving.
As we cross the bridge toward Long Island City, I watch the Manhattan skyline shrink in the side mirror.
All those gleaming towers get smaller and smaller until they’re just a jagged line of metal and glass against the sky.
The meeting should be simple enough. Just showing my designs, discussing installation logistics.
So why do I feel so jittery?
My fingers tap against my thigh. I reach up and touch the spot beneath my jacket where the Beretta rests in its holster.
The solid weight of it against my ribs is both reassuring and terrifying.
Either way, it’s necessary.
Thomas turns off the main road onto an industrial stretch that feels abandoned even in broad daylight.
Warehouses line both sides of the street like sleeping giants, their windows opaque with decades of grime.
No pedestrians here. No food carts or taxis or tourists with cameras.
Just concrete and metal and silence.
Thomas slows the car. “There,” he says. “That’s the address.”
We pull up in front of a warehouse that looks like it’s been abandoned for years. It squats between two other industrial buildings, shorter but wider, with rust stains bleeding down its concrete walls.
The roll-up door stands open like a gaping mouth, revealing nothing but darkness inside.
No sign announces what business might operate here. No lights shine from within. Not even a security camera that I can see.
That’s odd, I think to myself.
But after my research, I’d expected Dureff to be eccentric, maybe even reclusive. I calm myself with that thought.
Then I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the exterior to send to Alice.
I already have the caption in mind: just another day in the life of a Manhattan restaurateur.
Thomas is out of the car before I can voice my concerns. He stands tall, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the area.
His right hand hovers near his hip where I know he keeps his weapon.
“All clear,” he calls after a moment, nodding toward the entrance. “Let’s take a look inside.”
I step toward the open doorway and cross the threshold. The air inside smells like old paint and dust.
Drop cloths are piled against one wall. A ladder leans crookedly beside a worktable. Light filters in through grimy windows, turning the space gray and flat.
“Mr. Dureff?” I call.
My voice echoes back at me.
No answer.
I take another step inside.
That’s when I hear movement.
Two men step out from behind a stack of wooden crates. Heavy boots. No tools. No paint. No reason to be here.
One of them reaches behind his back, and my stomach drops.
This isn’t a meeting. It’s an ambush.
I glance over my shoulder for Thomas.
He’s not there.
The first man pulls a gun, and Dante’s voice floods my mind, calm and precise. “Lock your wrists. High grip. Don’t hesitate.”
I draw.
The first shot explodes in the warehouse, deafening. The recoil jolts up my arm, but I don’t drop the gun.
The man jerks backward and slams against a crate. The second one lunges sideways, raising his weapon.
I fire again. He stumbles, hits the crate, and slides down hard.
The silence afterward is worse than the noise.
For half a heartbeat, I just stand there. The Beretta heavy in my hand.
Then a gunshot cracks behind me, and glass shatters overhead.
“Mrs. R!” Thomas shouts.
He drops to one knee, clutching his thigh.
“I’m hit!”
Everything inside me goes cold. There could be more men out of sight or on the way.
I swing back toward the crates, scanning shadows, corners, doorways.
Nothing moves.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I back toward Thomas, gun still raised.
Blood seeps through his fingers.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
He grits his teeth. “Yeah. I think so.”
I don’t lower the weapon as I hook my arm under his and guide him toward the door.
The engine is still running, and I push him into the passenger seat.
“I’ll drive.” I slide behind the wheel, slam the door, and hit the gas.
The tires scream as we tear out of the lot. My hands look white on the steering wheel.
The skyline rushes back toward us.
I don’t remember most of the drive.
Only the sound.
The shots.
The way the first man fell.
When I pull up outside Dante’s club, he’s waiting, along with his men.
He steps out before I fully stop the car. His face is darker than I’ve ever seen it.
He reaches the door and opens it, scanning my face and body. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head.
His gaze drops to the Beretta on the front seat next to me.
“You fired.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightens. Then he pulls me out of the car and embraces me, one hand firm at the back of my head.
“You did exactly what I taught you,” he murmurs. “Exactly.”
“Thomas is hurt,” I tell him.
Even as I speak, Dante’s men busy themselves taking him out of the car.
“He needs medical care!” I add.
“Yes. On the way,” Dante assures me, hugging me even tighter.
Standing there, pressed against his chest, I realize something irreversible has happened.
I pulled the trigger today.
I killed two men.
There is no going back to the person I was before.
And I think Dante knows it too.