Chapter 9
AMBER
Giovanni is there again.
I clock him the moment I step onto the floor, even though I tell myself not to. He’s at the dinner table tonight, not the bar. I can see him sitting alone with a glass of red and a plate he barely seems interested in.
No Moretti.
No Neri.
Just him.
That detail needles at me more than it should. I don’t know why I notice absences so easily now, but I do. I notice patterns. Gaps.
I spend the whole night watching him out of the corner of my eye while pretending I’m not. Every time I glance his way, he’s already looking at me. Not staring or anything. Just… watching, like this is all deeply entertaining.
It pisses me off.
I glare at him whenever I catch his eye. He answers with the faintest curve of his mouth that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking and finds it funny.
After dinner service, he moves to the bar.
Of course he does.
He takes a seat at the far end, one arm draped casually along the counter, and the looks continue. If anything, they get worse. More lingering. Like he’s testing how long it’ll take before I snap.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
I pour drinks. I wipe counters. I smile at customers who don’t know or care that my nerves are stretched thin. I ignore Giovanni with professional precision.
Closing time can’t come fast enough.
When it finally does, I’m coiled tight with irritation and something I don’t want to name. I lock the back door, finish wiping down the bar, and reach for the light switch.
I turn around.
He’s right behind me.
“Fuck—” I curse, heart slamming into my throat.
“Tense much?” Giovanni says mildly.
I clamp down hard on the urge to punch him square in the chest. My hand actually twitches before I stop it.
“Do you get off on sneaking up on people,” I snap, “or is that just a bonus feature?”
He lifts an eyebrow. My words don’t seem to bother him one bit. “I didn’t sneak. You were just very focused on not looking at me.”
I scowl at him, pulse still racing.
One day, I’m going to stop resisting the urge.
Tonight is not that day.
“So?” I draw myself up, trying to project more bravado than I feel. “Are you ready to tell me what happened to my friend?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just tilts his head towards the pub across the street.
Right. Our deal.
He starts walking. I debate for a second about doing the sensible thing—getting the hell out of dodge. Never talking to Giovanni Gallo again outside of bar service. Forgetting about Rose and hoping for the best.
But I can’t. I can’t forget Rose’s disappearance any more than I can forget Coral’s.
Can’t resist the pull of Giovanni’s back sinking deeper into the shadows.
Can’t ignore the gut feeling that, somehow, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The pub—which is just called PUB—is nothing like Notte Bianca.
The ceiling is low, the lights dim and yellowed, the floor permanently tacky under my shoes.
It smells like old beer and something vaguely citrusy someone sprayed five minutes ago and hoped would fix everything.
It’s the kind of place that survives because people are creatures of habit, not because anyone would ever recommend it.
I would never have associated it with Giovanni.
He seems completely at ease, though. He takes it in with one quick glance, already clocking exits, angles, people. Like nothing here intimidates him, but he’d still rather be cautious.
“Checking for an escape route?” I can’t help but snort. “I doubt the check will be that steep.”
We slide into a secluded booth and sit across from each other. “You wound me, Ms. Price. You should know I’m not the type to drink and dash.”
Ms. Price. The way he says it has my stomach tying itself up in increasingly imaginative knots. “And yet you seemed to think you might have to bolt.”
“Retreat isn’t my preferred strategy, but it is a strategy.” He shrugs. “Always surprise your enemy. Sun Tzu.”
I let out a short breath. “Is that what I am? An enemy?”
He gives me a long, piercing look. “That remains to be seen.”
The bartender wanders over. I don’t wait for Giovanni to speak.
“Two bourbons,” I say. “Neat. Purple label.”
Giovanni turns his head toward me, just a fraction. Something like surprise flickers across his face before he smooths it away.
“You drink bourbon,” he says.
“I do,” I reply. “And you’re paying, so I’m getting the good stuff.”
That earns me a slow shake of his head and an almost-smirk.
His fingers wrap around the glass when it arrives, sure and practiced. I hate that I notice how strong they look, or linger on the vein along the back of his hand.
I hate that I’m a liar.
How did I ever think I could get out of this unscathed?
Giovanni raises his glass. “To new alliances.”
“To finding out who the enemy is,” I toast.
We drink.
The burn settles low in my chest. Or maybe it sharpens everything.
“Rose is safe,” he says.
Relief hits me so fast it makes me dizzy. I grip the edge of the table, anchoring myself.
“Where?” I ask. “With who?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
I lean forward. “You can.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t move. He just looks at me, calm and immovable. “There are more dangerous forces at play than you understand.”
That’s it.
I push back my chair and stand. “Then I’m going to the police.”
His hand closes around my wrist.
Right under the bracelet.
The contact is firm, controlled. Not painful. Worse than that, it’s electrifying.
“You’ll do no such thing,” he says. “The cops will be of no help to you.”
I don’t tell him that I know that. That I’ve already tried to get them to help me and failed so miserably it still burns. “We’ll see about that.”
“They’re in our pockets.” His tone doesn’t waver. “Mine. Moretti’s. Neri’s. Lucchese’s and Romano’s too.”
My breath stutters. “What?”
“You heard me.”
My head is spinning. No one says something like that unless it’s true. And yet, no regular person could simply own the cops. “Just who the hell are you?”
He releases me and leans back, like he’s decided it’s time.
“Don Giovanni Gallo,” he says. “Of the Gallo family.”
The name lands all at once.
The rumors. The looks. The way the room always seemed to bend around him. I’d heard whispers, but I hadn’t wanted to believe them. They felt too surreal.
Suddenly, Izzy’s voice rings in my ears.
“You’re on the mafia table again. Fun times.”
Mafia.
It was true. All of it was true.
Giovanni Gallo is mafia.
It suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been sitting here and drinking bourbon with a mafia Don.