A group of black-suited men wait for us, ramrod straight. I scan the little plaza and the buildings around us for snipers. I'm still not convinced this isn't a fucking trap. What the hell was Eagle-eye thinking, letting them host the truce negotiations? Usually he knows what he's doing, but this is one fucking long leap of faith. Still, it's my job to keep him safe, so here we are.
We kill the engines and swing our legs over, leaving behind a line of chrome and hard rubber. A wiry man with hair just gray enough to call salt and pepper comes out to greet us. “Welcome. I'm Arturo Giordano. This way, please.” He holds his hands as wide as his smile, but I don't trust that shit. This place is full of fucking snakes.
The boys and me take up positions behind Eagle-eye, standing broad and resting our hands on our pieces. If things go to shit, we're not going down easy. I’ll be sitting at the table in Valhalla, telling tales of how many of this fucking Family we took with us.
“Thanks,” says Eagle-eye gruffly, fixing the mob guy with his good eye. The other is blind and milky white, and even Arturo Giordano takes an unintended step back under the intensity of that glare. Eagle-eye's getting older, but he's like Odin, king of the Norse gods. Wise, one-eyed, and way too damn cocky for his own good. “Let's get to business then. Take us to him.”
Giordano nods, his smile never fading, though his eyes are tight and alert. We're not the only ones on edge today. He waves for us to follow, past the black-suited guards. I can fucking smell the tension. One sudden move, and there's going to be a fuckload of guns being waved around. That's how folks end up dead.
The lobby is huge, reaching up at least fifteen-twenty stories. The floors are veiny, white marble. Pink granite planters hold trees and other plants, softening the hardness of all the stone. Everything looks sleek and arranged. Planned down to the smallest detail.
It's fucking sterile, if you ask me. More like a corporate headquarters than a mob den. Then again, sometimes it's hard to tell the fucking difference.
An elevator's waiting for us, with big glass windows. It's held by a guy with black, slicked back hair, whose lip curls into a sneer as we approach. His eyes lock to mine, his gaze steeped in venom. I don't trust anyone here, but this is one viper who's longing for the opportunity to sink his fangs into my back. He's the first to break contact, but only so he can push the button for the penthouse.
We shoot up so fast my guts drop into my fucking shoes. The fancy windows are a waste, because the lobby zips by in a flash, and then we're inside a regular elevator shaft. They've prettied up the inside walls, but it's still dark. If anything, seeing the shaft makes it feel darker.
And then we emerge again, making me eat my fucking words. The top three or four floors are open, and as the elevator comes to a stop, a landscape of flowerbeds, small trees and a stone path to a fucking koi pond stretch out in front of me. It's a fancy garden, on the goddamn inside of a damn office building. That's some crazy shit.
The door slides open and Arturo steps out first. He gestures down the path. “This way, gentlemen.” In the background, leaves rustle and birds sing, but I can't tell if anything is actually real or it's just a recording.
“What do you think?” Snark makes no secret of rubbernecking. “Giving you ideas for the clubhouse?”
Bear chuckles. “If you don't wash your room soon, it's going to fucking look like that on its own.”
“Fuck you. I keep it immaculate.”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” I hiss. “We're not playing here.”
“Roger.” Snark wipes the grin off his face immediately and gets back to checking the surroundings. The guys fuck around, but they know what they're doing. I'd trust them with my life any day. Already have, several times. Brothers, in spirit if not in blood.
The path takes us past the pond, where some big ass fish are swimming around, and around a bend until we get to a large conference room that's half in and half out of nature. Straight out of a forest and right up to large windows that overlook the whole city. And in the middle there's a massive dark wood meeting table. On the other side of it stands Gabriele Giordano—Papa to his friends. And enemies.
He looks fucking ancient, his wrinkles so deeply furrowed you could confuse it with the bark of the trees behind us. He leans his weight onto a black cane with a jeweled handle, but we all know better than to underestimate him. He might look like a wizened old tree, but when he looks up, his dark eyes are hard as steel and his sharp jaw tight. Papa Giordano is not a man to fuck with.