Page 17 of The Bonventi Hitman

God, I wish I had a gun.

I finish getting ready, and despite my hatred, the dress makes me feel powerful. I'm surprised by how much it covers –normally he likes more skin on display. He's probably trying to hide his handiwork.

Covering up his mistakes.

We walk to the car in silence. His driver nods and helps me inside.

As we start moving, Luca turns to me.

"You're quiet tonight, Sofia," he says, his fingers moving up and down my arm. "Is everything all right?"

I force a slight smile, playing my part. "Of course, Luca. I'm just overwhelmed by your generosity. The dresses and now an evening out."

He smiles and rubs my thigh. "Good. I'm glad you're happy."

I almost throw up in my mouth from his touch. His eyes linger over me. His smile irks me.

The car comes to a stop outside a restaurant. The soft glow from the vintage wrought-iron lanterns illuminates a sign that reads "La Sfera Nera" in elegant script.

The valet opens my door, and I step out, my dress catching the moonlight. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the next few hours.

Inside, the soaring domed dining room takes my breath away. Curved archways and rich wood paneling surround us. There are red and black leather chairs around each table draped in crisp white linens. Candles flicker everywhere.

At the room's center, a massive spherical light fixture in black iron and smoky glass bathes everything in intimate shadows.

Luca leans close.

"La Sfera Nera, the Black Sphere as you can see. Beautiful, isn't it?"

I nod.

The maître d' waves us forward. Luca's hand rests on my lower back as we pass a dark wooden bar, where immaculately dressed bartenders serve fine wines and craft cocktails. Every detail screams wealth and status.

I then realize this is far more than a restaurant. It's a haven where Chicago's made men and elite players broker deals, forge alliances, and plot vendettas over plates of pasta.

Following the maître d', we're led to a secluded room where a table is waiting for us.

Our waiter, a tall, thin man in a black suit, appears out of the shadows behind us and pulls out my chair.

"Please, have a seat, ma'am."

"Thank you," I say with a smile.

He pours a deep red wine for Luca, who sips and nods with approval before my glass is filled. Then the waiter disappears back into darkness, waiting to be called.

I sip my wine and study Luca over the rim, his face flickering in candlelight.

I use, or try to use, my FBI training to observe his movements to see if I can gain any insight into what he's thinking. I notice the lines of stress etched on his forehead. "You seem like you have something on your mind," I say, trying to make conversation.

He hesitates. "There's a lot going on right now."

"Why don't you tell me about it?"

He takes a drink of his wine and laughs. "No, don't worry about it," he says as he reaches for the basket of bread and holds it out to me. "Here, take one, best bread in Chicago."

I place a warm piece on my plate.

Ugh, I need him to tell me something. Anything.