“Good woman, that one.” Ricardo seems more at ease. “If it were my wife, we’d be stuck waiting for hours.”
I don’t bother to reply. We stand in awkward silence on the threshold to my home and all I want to do is call this off. It was bad enough before, but now it’s downright suicide. If we go there and have no escape plan, no way to run if everything goes sideways?—
“Ready, gentlemen?” Deanna takes my arm and tugs me after Ricardo.
Fuck, this is happening.
We climb into a BMW. I take the passenger seat and Deanna gets in the back. Ricardo drives, grimly trying to make small talk. Deanna answers him which saves me from having to say anything. Instead, I concentrate on our route, a meandering series of turns that spirals away from south Philly and up toward the north, past Girard, past Temple University and Diamond, into the upper half of the city. I’m surprised when Ricardo parks outside of an old Victorian home on the edge of La Salle University’s campus, the sort of place that would usually be home to a half-assed frat.
“I leave you here.” Ricardo rolls down a window and produces a cigar.
“You’re not coming in?” Deanna sounds like she’s genuinely disappointed. “We’ll miss you.”
“I doubt that very much, but thank you all the same.” He leans back in his seat, lighting his smoke, puffing gray haze.
I slip my hand into Deanna’s as we ascend the steps toward the large front door. It’s strange, leaving Ricardo behind. I knew he was low-level, but still, we’re entering a place even he’s not allowed to go. The porch is clean, the floorboards newly varnished. It’s a beautiful example of the style: a peaked roof, bulging windows, freshly painted green accents. I touch Deanna’s back as I ring the bell and wait.
“Last chance to back out,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss her neck.
She shivers under my touch. “And miss the fun?” Her face lights up as the door opens. “Hello, Mr. Carbone. It’s nice to see you.”
Carbone looks over our shoulder toward the street. He seems satisfied and steps aside with a gesture. “Come inside. We’re waiting.”
The interior of the house is cool and spacious. There isn’t much in the way of furniture. It feels like it was staged by a realtor. Everything has that temporary, faux-expensive glaze to it, but looking closer I notice the wear to the tables, the dust on their surfaces.
Two guards stand in the front room. Both are in black suits and have conspicuous guns at their hips. Neither smiles as I nod to them in passing; I get the feeling their pay is docked if they ever act friendly. Deanna’s hand tightens in mine as we’re taken into a very large dining room dominated by a massive conference table, plenty of seating, and several more men talking amiably in low, comfortable tones over glasses of whisky.
“Gentlemen,” Carbone says, grabbing everyone’s attention. I’m very aware of the scrutiny we’re under from the most powerful men in the Fontana outfit. But I don’t worry about Deanna: I know they’re seeing a beautiful, intelligent woman.
It’s me I’m worried about.
Especially when I spot him sitting at the far end of the room.
I can’t pay attention to anything else, not even when Carbone’s clearly talking about me. I stare at old man Augustus like I’m spotting a real unicorn in the wild. He’s wrinkled in a hard way, the tanned and leathery face of a man used to laboring outdoors. His suit is plain, almost simple, and his eyes are dark brown. I wouldn’t look twice at him if I saw him on the street, but in this room, sitting with these men, he’s like a totem I can’t turn away from.
All my plans instantly vanish. All my carefully composed ideas, my painstaking thought, it poofs away like the mist of Shawn’s blood that night. Augustus Fontana’s here, barely fifteen feet from me, smoking a short cigar like he has a right to keep breathing. My childhood friend is decades in the grave while this old bastard grinds on, dragging his brittle bones to these haunted proceedings, and the hate I feel is like a blade in my heart.
I don’t care what me and Deanna agreed to before.
I’m going to kill him today.
“We’re happy to have you join us today,” Augustus says, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been told you bring a very interesting proposal.”
“We hope so,” Deanna says, sounding nervous. She’s been covering for me, but I manage to find my voice and smother my face in my best, most charming smile, doing my best to brighten an otherwise dour proceeding.
“I hope none of you mind that my wife is here. She’s the head for numbers. I’m just the good looks.”
A younger man to Augustus’s left laughs loudly. “If he thinks he’s the looks, I’m guessing he’s never actually seen his wife!” Frankie Inzerillo howls with joy at his idiotic joke. I smile along, but make sure to add his name to the list.
Bastard shouldn’t talk about my wife like that.
Carbone. Frankie. Augustus.
All dead men.
We’re seated at the opposite end of the table. Carbone takes his position near Augustus and folds his hands like he’s preparing for an actual business presentation. And for her part, Deanna hands out the materials like we discussed, passing around folders with charts and projections.
It’s not even bullshit. We agreed that if we were doing this, we’d go in with a serious proposal. Everything’s veiled in vague language, listing onlythe productand never putting anything incriminating in writing, but it’s a damn good show regardless. I can tell the old crooks are impressed as Deanna clears her throat and begins to run them through the numbers.