I point to a garment bag hanging up at the end of one of the rolling racks. Caligula unzips it and takes out a sleeve of the jacket, nodding. “Perfect. Of course. And these must be for you, too—” He reaches behind to where three plastic-covered shirtsare hanging as well. I assumed they were for him, but when he holds up one, I can see it would swamp him.
I frown. “I’vegotshirts. I didn’t ask for those.”
“You do have shirts,” he agrees. “But these are better. Time to play dress-up, Dami.” He flicks a finger at me, up and down. “Strip.”
I’m already pulling my t-shirt up over my head before I even think about getting pissed at some Clemenza trying to boss me around. But now’s not the moment for me to correct him; we need to time this interrogation right. We figured going early evening would be best, when the sun’s already on the way down. Caligula said all the lawyers would still be at the office, and it’ll be best to do what we need to do with the aid of darkness covering our tracks.
I even let him help me dress, since I figure he knows better than I do how to make it look decent. The tailor included a few ties with the shirts, and Caligula selects one in a deep green. “It will bring out the green in your eyes,” he says.
“My eyes are brown,” I protest.
“Yes. But they have shards of jade and emerald as well.”
Shards of jade and fucking emerald? I just let him tie some complicated knot and adjust it around my neck. He presses a hand down to make the tie sit right and looks up into my face. “There,” he says. “Perfect.”
He’s standing close enough that I swear to God I can feel his body heat, and my robe is sliding down that golden shoulder again. Without thought, my hands come up and close around his biceps, pulling him a little closer so that he has to tip his headback, his throat a long column, his lips falling open as his golden eyes grow heavy-lidded?—
A noise in the doorway makes us both turn our heads sharply, but I don’t let him go. If anything, I instinctively pull him closer, as though there’s any threat in my own house.
It’s just Sammy. He’s staring at me with big hurt eyes.
“What?” I snap.
“Vito’s waiting out front,” he says in a quavering voice. “Like you asked.”
I nod, dismissing him, but Sammy doesn’t immediately turn to go. Those sad eyes travel down my arms to where I’m clutching Caligula against me.
I guess, from where Sammy’s standing, it might look like I was about to kiss him.
“Go see if Rosa needs anything,” I bark out.
Sammy retreats slowly, walking backward, his eyes on the Clemenza’s face now. And I’ve never seen such hatred in his eyes before. He turns at last to leave, and I look down at the man pressed up against my chest.
He looks up at me.
“We need to get moving,” I tell him, and push him away. “Get dressed.”
Vito drives us through Midtown to the building where Stuccio & Associates has their offices, and I tell him to meet us in the side alley. “Won’t take long,” I tell him.
The Clemenza has barely said a word since we left the house, but he’s looking sharp in a caramel-colored turtleneck and brown pants, plus a tailored wool coat over the top. In fact, he looks good enough that every woman in the lobby can’t help but turn her head to follow him as we make for the elevator. A few of the men gawk, too. He’s walking ahead of me, making it look like we don’t know each other. There’s no reception in the lobby, so it’s easy enough to get to the elevator. But once we get up to the suite Stuccio works out of, that’s where Caligula will go to work causing a distraction.
“If you run,” I say under my breath to him in the elevator, “I will find you.”
He says nothing, watching the numbers light up with a calm expression, acting like he doesn’t know me at all.
The doors slide open. I let him go first, and then I pause next to the bank of elevators, checking my phone as though I just got a notification. The offices are still busy in the early evening. I guess lawyers keep late hours, because if anything, the place is humming. More than one of them glances my way, and I tense as they take in the breadth of my shoulders. I don’t look like them, not in my physical build. But as soon as they take in the suit, the tie, the shoes, they assume I’m one of them, and go back to their phone conversations or reading the papers in their hands.
Caligula has headed for the woman behind the reception desk like an arrow, and her face tightens in disapproval as she recognizes him. “I need to speak to my uncle,” Caligula says loudly.
And then he really goes to town. I always knew the guy was rich and pampered, but hearing the way his voice rises and rises with entitled irritation as the receptionist refuses again and again, I can tell just how fucking privileged he really feels, moving through this world like he owns it…
“Sir, if you won’t lower your voice, I’ll call security,” the lady snaps at last. Every eye turns their way, and conversation lulls. Caligula Clemenza just gets louder.
That’s my cue.
I put my phone away and turn left to head down the hallway. Caligula gave me a good idea of the layout, so within seconds I find the door stamped in gold:Anthony Stuccio, Esq. Managing Partner.
I walk right in. Stuccio is sitting at his desk, writing notes on a legal pad while he checks something on the computer screen. He looks up with a glower when I come in. “Who are you?”