Lorenzo.
Dammit.I was hoping for some free time to run a vibe check on the Uppers, to see where they stand with me after the Ricky Garro incident yesterday.They’ll either be wary of me now, or like me more.I’m hoping for the latter.They’re a valuable source of insight.
“Yes, boss?”I answer.
“You’re with Stefano today,” he says, to the point as always.
I frown.“What do you mean?”
“Gio came down with something.”
That was fast.It’s barely noon.“How is he?”
“Knocked out on meds,” he replies.“He was supposed to attend a meeting with Stefano.You’re going instead.”
“Me?Are you sure?Did you run it by him first?”I ask, taken aback.“Hard to believe he would want me tagging along.Hebarelytolerates me.”
Lorenzo chuckles.“It’s his idea.Meet him at the car park in an hour.”
In the background, Stefano’s voice cuts in, “Tell the little liar to dress like a woman, please.None of that depressive hobo-Viking shit she has going.”
That asshole.“You can tell that pompous pr—”
“One hour, Raya,” Lorenzo clips, his tone both firm and amused.
Before I can argue, he hangs up.
~
AN HOUR LATER, I leave the golf cart at the main cart station and cross the bridge to the car park.
Stefano is already there, leaned against one of his many matte-black Lincoln Navigators, dressed in an all-black suit.Immaculate.Effortless.
He’s on the phone, voice low and deep.
When he sees me approaching, he ends the call and straightens.His chest rises and falls with a sigh as his gaze drags over me.
What’s his problem now?
I glance down at myself.At the square-neck black dress paired with black flats and a small purse.The best I could pull from the Pink Closet without looking like a desperate single hunting for a rich husband.Amajorfeat, considering the wardrobe options.
Despite his unimpressed expression, he makes no comment on my attire.Instead, he lifts his phone and…
The camera shutter goes off.
Did he just snap a picture of me?
Before I can ask, he bites out, “If you’re on time, you’re late.”
Then he opens the passenger door and gestures for me to get in.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, to rankle him just for being such a miserable brute, but I hold back and climb in without backtalk.
“Good afternoon,” I greet the bald, stocky man behind the wheel.
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and gives a curt nod.He wouldn’t know that I know exactly who he is.Oscar Weiland.One of the few non-Italians in the organization.Ex-military.Loyal to a fault to the Castellos after they pulled him out of homelessness.
Stefano slides in beside me and slams the door like the world personally offended him.“Detour to Wendy, Oscar.”
