Chapter 8
LUCA MANNING’S APARTMENT, THE brONX, NEW YORK
He grabbed the material and hugged it to his bathrobe-covered body like a life preserver.
A shard of glass was only a few centimetres away from his big toe.
He took a breath and a few steps backwards, depositing the silk on the couch.
It was then he caught sight of the clock on the microwave.
Six a.m. There was no chance of getting to bed at all.
He ran a hand through his curls. At least the time spent pouring the brandy and poring over images on his MacBook hadn’t been wasted.
Gabriella Felix, his new client, was now not a complete mystery to him…
Avoiding the glass, he crept towards the door, and there, in a metal stand was the ‘umbrella’.
It was about the only thing of his father’s he had taken when he’d left the family home.
Picking it up, he looked through the spy hole at the exact moment there was another knock on the door.
A wide, lined face with hanging jowls like a bulldog appeared too close and Luca recoiled. Ronnie.
‘Open the door, Luca, I know you’re in there.’
Luca stilled and slowed his breathing in reaction to the gruff timbre the other side of the door. He tightened his grip on the handle of the umbrella while his mind worked on decision-making.
‘Luca! You want me to wake up all your neighbours? I can do that!’
Hammering on the door ensued, accompanied by the shouting of curse words, and Luca was left with no choice. He unlocked the bolts, slid back the chain and opened the door to face his father’s closest friend.
‘Atta boy,’ Ronnie greeted, looking like he was about to use his considerable bulk to cross over the threshold should he not be invited.
Luca stood firm, blocking the entrance. ‘What are you doing here? How did you even get in the front door?’
Ronnie smiled. ‘Come on, Luca. I’m a professional.
Unlike you with that umbrella.’ He laughed.
‘What you gonna do? Sing a little Gene Kelly to me?’ He shuffled a comedic tap dance, mocking.
Then he patted Luca’s shoulder with a meaty hand and eased his frame past. On this occasion it was easier to give in before any of his neighbours arrived in the corridor.
As Ronnie sauntered into the open-plan living space, Luca closed the door and put the umbrella back in its place.
‘So, what are you doing here?’ Luca repeated, tightening the belt on his robe. ‘It’s 6 a.m., you know that, right?’
‘And you know I’m a hardworking guy. Just like your babbo.’ Ronnie smiled. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place. The art is better. And I don’t doubt the coffee is great too.’
‘You came here for coffee?’
‘That would be swell.’
* * *
What was he thinking? Why had he made his father’s best friend coffee?
Why had he even allowed him to come inside his apartment?
This was all pushing past firm boundaries he had set for very good reason.
Except his father and his father’s friends had never been the kind of people who obeyed boundaries.
But he needed to remember that he wasn’t like them…
Ronnie slurped, fingers completely enveloping the tiny espresso cup as he perched on one of the kitchen island stools. Hopefully, one gulp and it would be gone and then Ronnie could be gone too.
‘Not Italian coffee but it’s OK, kid.’
‘You need to cultivate your tastes.’
‘Cultivate.’ Ronnie nodded. ‘Always with the fancy words.’
‘Why are you here, Ronnie?’ Luca asked. ‘To threaten me?’
‘Kid, you were the one coming to the door with your pop’s umbrella.’
Luca sighed.
‘Yeah, you think I didn’t recognise it? He taught me how to use it. Gave me my own one when I qualified.’
Luca shook his head, mini-flashbacks of family life raining down like New York sleet. ‘Just tell me what you want.’
‘Me? I don’t want anything. Your pop on the other hand…’
Luca put his hands to his head. A giveaway of his frustration. A tell. He dropped them again, tried to regain some composure but then he found himself clenching his knuckles.
‘He wants to see you,’ Ronnie stated.
Straight away, Luca’s stomach started to feel ill at ease, the way it always had done since he’d discovered exactly who his father was and every moment thereafter. Before he had even realised it, he was shaking his head.
‘And, just so we’re clear, kid, this ain’t no request.’
And slowly, as Ronnie’s sentence seeped into the heart of him that fear began to dissipate, conflicting with his truth, his morality, the opposition he’d felt strongly enough to make his stand against. At his side he tightened his fists.
‘Just so you’re clear, Ronnie, I’m not on my father’s payroll.’
Laughter. Loud. Too loud.
‘That’s funny, kid,’ Ronnie said, pointing a fat finger. ‘That’s funny. You should take that to the Comedy Club.’
‘Ronnie, I want you to go back to my father and tell him, if I haven’t already made myself clear, that I won’t be seeing him again.’ He took a breath. ‘Ever.’
His intention was forceful, but still, even now, sometimes it felt like the words were navigating a slightly off-balance ladder. Conflicted.
‘Ah, OK,’ Ronnie said. He elongated his frame, stretching his legs out. ‘Then you better make more coffee. This could take a while.’
‘What aren’t you hearing, Ronnie? The answer is no.’
‘Yeah, I heard you,’ Ronnie answered, leaning back on the stool and putting his hands behind his head. ‘But, here’s the thing, kid, I can’t leave until the answer is yes.’