Chapter 6 NICO
NICO
Igive her ten minutes.
Long enough for her to disappear back into the rhythm of the floor.
Long enough for the handkerchief to vanish into her apron and for whatever softness crossed her face for half a second to be buried under duty.
Long enough for me to remind myself that I should leave this alone, pretend I overheard nothing.
Then I watch Donald Bernardi stroll past her like a man who has never once in his life been hit hard enough for his own good, and I know I am done pretending restraint is a virtue.
I set down my glass.
Leone sees it immediately. He always does.
“We going somewhere?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
That is all the explanation he gets.
I rise from the table without hurry, adjusting my cuffs as though I am doing nothing more dramatic than stretching my legs.
Donald is near the back corridor when I intercept him.
He startles when he sees me.
“Mr. Neri,” he says, all fake charm and instant nerves. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” I say. “Come outside.”
His face changes almost imperceptibly. Not enough that anyone watching would clock it, but enough for me. A man like Donald survives by reading danger, even if only so he can run from it.
“I’m actually in the middle of—”
“Outside,” I repeat.
He glances toward the dining room, like he is calculating whether making a scene would save him.
It won’t.
He must know that, because a second later he forces a laugh and nods.
“Sure. Of course.”
Leone falls in behind us.
We step through the back door into the alley, where the night air hits cold and wet against the skin.
The city sounds are duller here, muffled by brick and concrete and the dumpsters lined up against one wall.
It smells like rain, old grease, and the kind of desperation that soaks into a place over time.
Leone takes up position at the mouth of the alley without being told, hands in his coat pockets, eyes on the street. Anyone coming this way will see him first and decide, sensibly, to be elsewhere.
Donald turns to face me with his hands spread slightly, already smiling too hard.
“What’s this about?”
I pull out my gun.
The smile dies so quickly it almost amuses me.
“Oh my God.”
“Quiet,” I say.
He goes quiet.
I step closer, just enough that he has to tip his head back to keep looking at me.
“You are going to pay Izzy Hartwell what you owe her.”
Donald blinks.
“What?”
“The overtime you stole,” I say, my voice even. “You are going to pay it. Tonight.”
His mouth opens and closes. He is trying to decide whether lying or pleading will serve him better. He settles, poorly, on confusion.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I pull the hammer back with my thumb.
The click is small.
His knees almost give out.
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Okay. Okay. I know what you mean.”
“Good.”
He is sweating now. Beads of it at his temples, upper lip trembling, eyes locked on the gun like it contains the answer to every bad choice he has ever made.
“You are also going to pay her a bonus,” I continue.
“A bonus?”
“For the inconvenience.”
He swallows so hard I can see it.
“How much?”
I reach into my inside pocket with my free hand, pull out a folded stack of bills—around five thousand dollars—and shove it into his chest. He fumbles automatically and nearly drops it before clutching it with both hands.
“This much,” I say. “From me. You will tell her it is back pay and hazard compensation.”
Donald stares at the money like it might bite him.
His shocked eyes looks up at me.
Then, back at the gun.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
He nods fast.
I lean in just slightly, enough that my next words land where they need to.
“You will give it to her tonight. Personally. You will apologize for the accounting error. You will not mention me.”
Donald nods again.
“If she asks questions,” I say, “you will lie.”
“Yes.”
“If you ever steal from her again, I will know.”
His breath catches.
“And if you ever speak my name in connection to this, I will come back.”
I let that sit between us for a second.
Donald believes me.
That is the beautiful thing about men like him. Deep down, beneath the cheap cologne and petty cruelty and managerial fraud, they understand hierarchy. They know exactly when they have wandered into a food chain too high above their station.
“I understand,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Leone speaks from the mouth of the alley without turning around. “You should probably stop there, boss. He’s close to pissing himself.”
Donald makes a strangled sound of protest.
I lower the gun.
“Go inside,” I say.
He does not wait for me to repeat myself. He practically stumbles over his own shoes in his hurry to get back through the door, clutching the cash like it’s a live grenade.
For a moment I stay where I am, looking at the metal door swinging shut behind him.
Leone comes to stand beside me. “You’re slipping,” he reminds me calmly.
I glance at him.
“You used your own money.”
“It was faster.”
He huffs a laugh. “That is one word for it.”
I put the gun away. “Do you object?”
“Not at all.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though I suspect this is not standard extortion protocol.”
“It is not extortion.”
“What would you call it, then?”
I start back toward the door.
“Accounting.”
Leone laughs under his breath and follows me inside.
By the time we return to the dining room, everything looks exactly as it should. The guests are still eating. The servers are still moving. The illusion remains intact.
That is the trick with power. The best use of it leaves no visible stain.
I retake my seat at the table as though I have been gone no longer than necessary. Leone settles behind me, unreadable again.
Across the room, Donald emerges from the back corridor looking like a man who has just seen the inside of his own grave. Even from here I can see that his hands are unsteady.
He spots Izzy almost immediately.
She is at the service station balancing three competing disasters at once, speaking to the florist replacement while checking a bill and signaling Amber for something at the bar. Efficient, composed, beautiful in the way she always is when she is too busy to remember she should be tired.
Donald approaches her.
I do not turn my head.
I do not need to.
From where I am sitting, I can hear them perfectly.
“Izzy,” he says, trying and failing to sound normal. “A word.”
Izzy looks up. “If this is another joke, I’m not in the mood.”
Donald actually flinches.
Interesting.
He lowers his voice. “There was… a payroll error.”
Silence follows those words.
Then, very flatly, “A what?”
“A payroll error,” he repeats. “Accounting issue. Some hours were misfiled.”
Izzy lets out a short laugh that has no amusement in it whatsoever. “That’s a creative way to say you tried to rob me.”
Donald’s eyes flick, involuntarily, toward my table.
She notices. Of course, she notices.
Izzy notices everything.
He tears his gaze away from me so fast it is almost comic.
“No one robbed anyone,” he says. “It’s fixed.”
I can hear the disbelief in her silence before she speaks again.
“Fixed how?”
Donald shoves the envelope into her hands.
“That’s your overtime,” he mutters. “And additional compensation.”
Izzy looks down at it.
Even from here, I can picture the exact moment her expression changes. First suspicion. Then confusion. Then the dawning realization that the amount inside is far more than she expected.
“Donald.”
He takes a step back.
“It was a clerical issue.”
She studies him for a moment.
In another life, one where I was a better man or she belonged to a safer world, I might have enjoyed this openly. The way her mind works. The speed of it. The sharpness.
She does not accept easy answers. She does not trust miracles. She takes the gift apart in her hands looking for the knife hidden inside it.
Smart.
And dangerous, in its own way.
Her eyes lift towards my table. I rise before they can meet mine.
Leone does the same behind me, smooth as shadow.
“Leaving already?” Giovanni calls from the bar.
“I have an early morning,” I say.
It is not a lie. My mornings have been occupied for a year now.
As I button my jacket, I can feel Izzy’s attention still searching in my direction.
She will put it together eventually, or enough of it to be dangerous. That is the problem with helping intelligent women in secret. They rarely have the courtesy to remain oblivious.
So I do the only sensible thing.
I leave before she can ask a single question.