Domenico’s Pizzeria
The back room of the restaurant is dank and poorly lit. A bunch of boxes linger beneath a broken table shoved in the corner and a large cabinet filled with dirty cutlery. The chair I’m slumped in has a slightly stilted leg, so I feel like I’m about to slip right off it.
It’s been about fifteen minutes since I was pushed into this room. I’d expected the older man with the watchful eyes to follow me in here, but he’d shut the door on me and locked me inside.
One look around the room told me that there’s no getting out. There aren’t any windows, no ventilation, and I can see a strange, black fungus growing in the grout between the wall tiles.
When the lock finally turns, I get to my feet instinctively. I have no idea what to expect. I don’t even know who these men are loyal to.
My brother? It seems unlikely.
Kian? More plausible, but still unsure.
The door opens. The older man walks into the room. And he’s not alone.
He’s accompanied by another man who looks to be around the same age. Except there’s something slightly more sinister about this one. His features are heavier, darker. Definitely European, but not Italian.
“Lionel,” he says, even though his eyes are on me, “you expect me to have a conversation with her in this fucking shithole?”
Lionel, the one who first grabbed me, glances around. “Uh… this is the only private room we—”
“Clear the fucking restaurant,” he commands, adjusting the navy blazer he’s wearing over a dark, long-sleeved shirt.
Lionel bows his head and heads into the main body of the restaurant. I’m grateful he keeps the door open on his way out, if only so that I don’t have to breathe in toxic fungus spores in my last few minutes on earth. But it doesn’t really help with the invisible rope I can feel twisting around my neck.
“Who are you?” I croak.
The man in the blazer smiles, as though he’s just discovered that his new dog can talk. “You are much more beautiful in person,” he says in a low voice, thick with desire.
I take a step back, making sure the chair is between the two of us. “I’ll ask again,” I say, proud of the fact that my tone doesn’t waver. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Hmm. You have fight in you,” he comments, his expression twisting into displeasure. “I’ll have to tamp that out.”
“Don Rokiades,” Lionel says, appearing at the doorway, “the restaurant has been cleared for you.”
Don Rokiades? The name is familiar. I’ve heard Drago mention it a couple of times.Now, I wish I’d paid attention to the context.But I don’t have to have paid attention to know that anyone who looks like this guy and has the title “Don” preceding his name is bad fucking news for me.
“Excellent,” Rokiades says before fixing me with a deadly glare. “Follow me.”
There’s nowhere to run. I have no choice but to follow Rokiades out into the restaurant.
It hasn’t just been cleared out; it’s been closed off, too. The doors are locked, the windows blacked out by thick, dark curtains that clash horribly with the rest of the interior. The lights are turned on, even though sunlight is still sneaking in through the sides of the curtains.
Luigi is nowhere in sight. But there are several suited men in dark sunglasses standing around the restaurant. I can’t see any weapons, but I have no doubt they’re carrying.
Rokiades sits down at a table in the center of the restaurant and gestures for me to do the same. And because I’m not stupid, I do as I’m told.
“Renata Lombardi,” he murmurs, moving my name around in his mouth.
He’s got a salt-and-pepper mustache, but the hair on his head is a deep black that’s too unnatural to be real. Blue eyes, too—but they’re nothing like Kian’s.
I don’t even know why I make the comparison. I don’t why my mind finds any and every excuse to think of the Irishman.
“How old are you, girl?”
I frown, bristling at the way he’s addressing me. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five,” he repeats. “I was twenty-five the first time I got married.”