“I came to pay my respects and to offer my condolences for your loss.”
“You knew Jody?”
“Not personally.”
“So why do you even care?”
“Here.” He slips a business card into my hand. “Take this.”
“The hotel where the wake is being held. What about it?”
“I have taken a suite upstairs to conduct some business. My room number is on the back. Come and see me this evening.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I told you to and I do not like it when people refuse my invitations.” His voice turns cold for a moment. “Until this evening, Miss Fletcher.”
He gets to his feet, walking off down the sidewalk with an older man by his side. The two of them are deep in conversation as they go. I watch them for a moment before looking at the business card. On the front, it simply has the name Grand Hotel. On the back blue flowing handwriting spells out Room 232. Bianchi.
Bianchi? I’ve heard that name before. Where? Then it hits me. The other big mafia family in the city. Coincidence? Does he work for the Bianchi famiglia? Sent here to rile me up so I kill Alessandro and help them out? Is that why he came? To manipulate me into killing someone?
I note that I pocket the business card rather than toss it into the gutter. I stand up when I hear my sister’s favorite song being sung inside the church. God Bless the Child.
I go back in. I don’t speak to anyone when I do. I simply take my seat on the front row and listen to the others singing. I look at the coffin and something sparks alight inside me.
That man said he could help me get justice for what happened to Jody. I couldn’t stop her dying but maybe I can get vengeance for what happened to her. Would killing Alessandro make everything okay?
The rest of the service passes in a blur. It’s like I’m being moved through time, rather than taking an active part in things. The coffin is carried out and it’s over. How did that happen?
We all follow. Snapshots in time. The hearse. The burial. Words spoken at the graveside. Another Nicolas Cage picture beside the coffin as it’s lowered. The hearse again. The wake. Surrounded by well wishers. Relatives I haven’t seen for years. Jody’s friends who I never met. Her work colleagues. Her clients. Everyone sorry for what happened but nobody talking about the man who caused all this pain.
I sit on a sofa in the hotel’s ballroom. Tables and chairs have been laid out like it’s a wedding, food for all tastes on silver platters. More Nicolas Cage pictures in frames. People eat and talk but I’m not hungry. I dig out the business card and look at it again. Room 232.
People nod sympathetically toward me as I pass through the crowd, heading out into the atrium. I find an elevator and take it, following the signs to room 232. It’s on the fifth floor. When I step out into the corridor, I’m stopped by two men in black suits. They look at me, blocking the corridor so I can’t get by. “Help you?” the taller one asks. “You lost?”
“You could get out of my way. That’d help.”
“This floor has been reserved for the night,” he replies. “Can’t let you through.”
“I got this,” I say, pulling out the card and showing it to him. “Room 232. It’s down this way, right?”
He takes the card from me and his expression changes at once. “My apologies,” he says, handing back the card. “Straight down there on the right.”
As I walk between the two of them, he speaks into an earpiece. “Card coming through.”
I pass more pairs of men in suits. They look at me but say nothing. I wonder what it would be like to try to get down here without the business card in my hand. I doubt I’d get far. They all look like they’re armed.
I stop when I get to room 232. I take a deep breath and I’m about to knock when the door opens and I find myself looking at yet another anonymous man in a black suit.
“Mr. Bianchi is expecting you,” he says. Behind him, the guy from the funeral is sitting at a large table, seemingly in the middle of an important conference. Upon seeing me, he gives a wave of his hand. The dozen or so men sitting with him all get to their feet and file out past me, frowns on their faces, no doubt wondering who I am. I feel like screaming, “I’m not a hooker,” but I get the feeling that would only make them think I am more.
“Come and sit down,” Mr. Bianchi says once we’re alone. So that’s his name. Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Are you Don Bianchi?” I ask. “As in head of the Bianchi famiglia?”
“You’ve worked it out,” he says as I sit down at the table. “Drink?”
“No, and worked what out?”