Antonio Moretti, the Italian Mafia? I don’t believe it.
Yes, he’s Italian, but just because he’s of Italian descent, it doesn’t automatically mean that he works for the mafia.
I’ve worked a handful of nights at the bar. I’ve seen nothing to prove Dmitri’s story or anything shady.
Antonio is hardly around the bar. I met him on the day of my interview; that was the last time I saw him.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
He’s probably busy with other projects or handles other business matters during non-peak hours. He could run a second bar or a club.
Dmitri needs to get out of my head. I walk back in the direction of my apartment. It’s too far to walk the entire way, but I’m steaming and need a way to unleash my boundless energy.
I’ve already walked several blocks when a black SUV pulls up alongside me. The back window rolls down.
Antonio Moretti sits behind the driver’s seat while he has someone chauffeuring him around. He glances me over. “It’s late, Sadie. Let me give you a ride.”
I bite down on my tongue. There’s no sign of Dmitri, not that it matters. He made his position clear, and I made mine just as crystal.
“Can you drop me off at my apartment?” I ask, stepping toward the SUV.
“Of course, just give the driver your address,” Antonio says.
Dmitri is out of his mind.
There’s no way this man is with the Italian Mafia.
Perhaps it’s another Antonio Moretti, or Dmitri is just completely delusional. I open the back door, provide my address to the driver, and slip into the vehicle beside Antonio.
“I must say, I’m surprised to find you walking alone at this hour and quite far from your home, given the subway is in the opposite direction.”
Antonio is observant. I’ll give him that much.
“Bad date,” I say, not wanting to elaborate further.
He chuckles and nods knowingly. “I remember those days before I married myTesorinaand settled down,” he says.
I glance at his hand, noticing the wedding band.
If what Dmitri said were true and Antonio was the head of the Italian Mafia, what woman would marry him? He’d be a monster by Dmitri’s definition.
I can’t ask him if he works for the mafia. Even if he does, he’s not going to out himself. Men like that are secretive because of their shady business dealings.
“What brings you down here?” I ask, pretending to make small talk. Every so often, I glance out the window to make sure that we’re heading in the correct direction of my apartment.
I’m being paranoid. I blame Dmitri for my ridiculous concerns.
“I just dropped my daughter, Sophia, off at a sleepover.”
If it weren’t summer, I’d be wondering what type of parent drops their kid off on a Monday night for a sleepover, but Allie is out of school for a few more weeks, and I’m sure Sophia is as well.
“How old is Sophia?” I ask.
“She just turned five. The twins are growing up so fast,” Antonio says.
“Twins?” I laugh. “I can’t imagine having two of them at that age. I have my daughter, she’s thirteen, and I swear that’s all I can handle. One teenager at a time.”
“I have a lot of help from my wife, Aleksandra.”