My stupid mouth will probably blurt out all my secret connections when the officer asks for my name.
Emma made it back to Ace’s car and headed home, trying to calm herself. As she drove, a million things rolled around in her brain, from worrying about Ace to thinking about who was trying to kill her now.
Not to mention if the café workers had a way of identifying her. Emma thought about the idea of cops hunting her down to question her, and her overly complicated life suddenly became a tight net set to strangle her.
She ran up the stairs to her apartment, almost home free, when she felt a bolt of anxiety. Emma looked around, wondering if something was about to go down. She seemed to be getting a sixth sense for danger.
It only took me my whole life, but here we are.
Standing in front of her door was a very tall … and very wide … black man. He had enormous arms and a massive chest. His physical attributes were not well hidden by his expensive suit. Even though it was night and indoors, he was wearing dark shades.
“Marshall?” she squeaked. It was one of the Don’s favorite bodyguards. If he was here, so was Don Fontana.
Marshall nodded without answering. She imagined that he hadn’t even looked at her, just maintained his stoic position. She opened the door and slipped inside, wondering if it was just the Don inside or a whole firing squad.
Maybe, I should have just gone to jail after accidentally running over that officer. It might have been simpler.
Emma crept into the loft, waiting for mob cronies to jump her. She heard nothing, no voices or footsteps. As soon as she stepped into the living room, she saw Don Fontana sitting in her favorite chair, lighting a thick cigar as he looked up to greet her.
“Emma, my dear,” the Don stood up and gently touched her shoulders to air kiss her cheeks. “How wonderful to see you.”
“And you, too, Uncle Don,” she said meekly.
He sat, but she remained standing, her hands clasped to her chest. She still held Ace’s phone, wallet, and keys, as well as her purse.
The irony was not lost on Emma. He was greeting her as if they had randomly run into each other, but he had clearly broken into her house. His manner seemed easy and casual, even friendly, but the threat was clearly implied.
“Don’t stand at attention, young lady. Please, sit. Unless you’d like to make a coffee or get some wine? I’d like you to be comfortable for our little chat.”
He puffed on the cigar, his mouth smiling, but his eyes were squinted and dark. Emma collapsed into a nearby chair, the collection of personal items falling into her lap. The Don looked at them with interest as if pointing out that there were two of everything.
“How are things, Emma, dear?”
“Good. Great. Fine, thanks,” she said too quickly. Her tongue stumbled over the words.
What’s going to happen? Is he here to kill me?
The Don smiled, shaking his head.
“There’s no need to be frightened. I’m just here to chat.”
I’m sure you say that to all your murder victims.
Emma closed her mouth, pressing her lips together. The only thing that she could imagine that would make this situation worse was if Ace just happened to bust in at this exact moment.
“Strange things are going on, Emma,” the Don said, putting out his cigar in an empty mug. “My shipments are not as expected. Customers are unhappy. My boys seem to be confused about details. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were lying to me.”
The Don sat forward, his eyes wide and cold as they fixed on her.
“Would you lie to me, Emma?”
“No, sir! Of course not!”
“Good,” he said gently. “Because I’m not here to ask about the state of my stash house … not right now, anyway. So far, there are only minor hiccups … but things are going on that could turn into catastrophic disasters.”
He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t,” she whispered. She wasn’t lying. Her mind had gone totally blank.