Page 144 of Bitter Poetry

She shrugs and her smile is rueful. “I know. It’s ridiculous. But it makes me feel better… Nobody at the club knows about what happened to me. Not even Leon or Dante. Supposing they did look me up, all they would find was a doctor struck off the register for malpractice.”

A doctor? She’s either an amazingly quick study or much older than she looks.

But I don’t linger on that for long. My smile fades. The direction this story is going makes me deeply uneasy.

“I’m not telling you this for your sympathy. Nor to enlighten you about the kind of man your husband is, that he would help a friend ruin a woman guilty of nothing more than being assaulted and seeking justice. I have a feeling that your eyes are wide open for someone so young. No, I’m telling you because I sense you have very little peace of mind, and I took the last of it from you. For that, I’m deeply sorry, and I wish only to give you something back. The man who assaulted me wasn’t content with having me struck off the register; he chased me with a wrecking ball through every legitimate job I found until, finally, out of desperation, I looked for a place to work where they didn’t use regular channels to perform background checks. He’s still the administrator at the Kennedy Memorial Hospital. He’d pay good money to find out where I work so he could screw me over again. I’m trusting you with my secret because you unwittingly trusted me with yours… If you need anything, ask Leon to ask me to get it.” She smiles, but her eyes are sad. “The way Leon spoke about you tells me he cares deeply about you. I envy you that.”

I’m reeling, but at the same time, I feel like I’ve just made a friend. When was the last time I had a friend? Acting on instinct, I hug her.

Her chuckle is warm. She hugs me back, fierce and perfect. “You like the chocolate that much, huh?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

CHAPTER 43

DANTE

The drive over to Bosco’s club takes two long hours. Leon calls me no less than four times. On the final occasion, he asks me if I’ve taken my gun.

I’m sitting in the front with Mateo, and the call is on speaker.

Mateo smirks.

“As if I’d walk into Ettore’s office with a gun.” I mean, I did think about it…

“He thought about it,” Mateo says. “He doesn’t have it.”

I cut him a glare and end the call on Leon’s dark chuckle.

“Are you expecting trouble, or think he’ll be a lot of hot air?” Mateo asks, all business, as we pull into the underground garage.

“Dangerous hot air,” I say. “He just misplaced his wife. I’m not expecting to meet his rational side today.”

“Misplaced,” Mateo muses with another grin as he puts the AMG into park, and we exit the vehicle. “He probably won’t let me in his office with you, but I’ll stay as close as I can. Anywhere else, I’ll have you covered.”

Mateo is one of the select few we have entrusted with details of our guest. And I don’t doubt him when he says he has me covered, having seen him in training when he puts the rest of our top soldiers through their paces. He could probably kill you with a toothpick, if he were of a mind. We pay him a generous salary not only for his skills but for his ability in training others. Our acquisition of the boxing center turned mixed martial arts gym has proven advantageous in more ways than one. Between Mateo and Adam, we’ve been putting considerable time and effort into upskilling any soldier who shows promise.

Ettore has always treated his soldiers like disposable assets. I prefer to think of them as investments—you put something in and get something more out. I couldn’t care less where they come from or their story. What we’ve been looking for is the right attitude and willingness to learn.

Word has gotten around that we pay well and look after our men.

None of them suffer delusions: the work can be dirty and dangerous—we’re still an essentially criminal organization. But they appreciate that we’re different to average, and that has made them loyal.

Over the coming days and weeks, that loyalty will be tested.

We walk across the parking garage toward the elevator bank. Two of Ettore’s soldiers are there. The one on the right is on his radio, probably calling in our arrival. It reminds me of the last time I came here, over a year ago. The day Ettore told me I would become a capo.

And the day he told me to stay away from his wife.

“Christian going to be here?” Mateo asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Fair enough. The plan for if this goes south is solid. Take any worry about her safety off the table while you’re here.”

The two soldiers step aside as we draw near. It’s late afternoon, and the club is empty so we take the shortcut straight through. Christian is sitting on a barstool, thumbing through his cell phone. A sense of relief washes over me. I hadn’t given real credence to the possibility he might have been compromised—maybe that was foolhardy of me. It’s still good to see him and note that he appears relaxed. He gives me a nod but says nothing and goes back to his cell phone.

“Your brother is something else,” Mateo mutters beside me.