Gian (Trassato Crime Family #1)(34)

“Well, then…” I tugged on the cornflower blue infinity scarf that felt more like a noose around my neck the longer he looked at me. “I guess I’ll catch a cab. See you later.”

He stood, the metal legs of his chair scraping across the ebony-stained hardwood floors. “Where are you going?”

“Dancing.” At his blank look, I continued. “I booked some private time in a dance studio to practice and get in shape. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Ah, right. I don’t know how I forgot.” He snagged his phone from the table and stuffed it in the back pocket of his dark jeans. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m fine taking a cab.” I flipped my hand toward him. “I’m sure you have better stuff to do. Don’t you have to work or something like that?”

“Nope. It’s Monday. The club isn’t open.” He edged closer to me, his heavy footfalls ringing in my ears. “Besides, I don’t want you wandering around by yourself. It’s not a good idea after what happened last night.”

My brows scrunched together, and my heart did this weird fluttery thing inside my chest. For a fleeting second, I thought he meant what happened between us. Then I remembered the drive home, and my shoulders uncoiled with relief. I didn’t want to jump right into a conversation about the meaning of last night. It’d muddle my thoughts and tear my attention away from dancing, and I needed to remain focused on my career regardless of what happened in my personal life.

“Yeah, okay. You’re probably right,” I agreed despite the anxiety clawing at my chest. What other choice did I have? “Do you have any idea what happened? Was it random or…?” I didn’t know how to finish my sentence.

“I’m working on it.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t understand Gian’s world. He never talked to me about the risks of what he did. I assumed he and his family were into some bad stuff and somehow connected to the mafia, and other than that, I didn’t know shit. I was running blind, and I couldn’t exactly use mafia movies or books to give me the down low on what not to do. As much as it irked me to rely on another man after Kevin, I had to trust Gian.

***

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the dance studio in a pair of black capri leggings and a cotton cropped black top that hung off one shoulder. I moved from leg holds to lunges and every other stretch in my warmup routine, doing my best to ignore Gian’s presence. It seemed nearly impossible. My gaze tangled with his every time his feet shuffled over the hardwood floor or his finger pressed against the screen of his phone. Every movement, breath, or shared glance reminded me of last night, and I couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Sighing, I stuffed my earbuds into my ears and started moving through a dance I had choreographed last week.

Pas de bourrée.

Grand jeté.

Fouetté

Every noise, thought, and twinge of pain faded away. I loved dancing. It was a part of me. I loved flowing from one move to the other, my body straining, muscles flexing and merging with the music. I loved the way the bass rumbled through me, making me feel alive. Even if I couldn’t do it professionally, I knew I could never stop dancing. It was imprinted on my soul. Without it, I’d be lost.

Two hours passed like twenty minutes. Sweat misted my forehead. While my legs felt a little too much like jelly for my liking, my ankle didn’t hurt nearly as much as last week. In fact, I hardly noticed it once I got into the routine.





CHAPTER NINETEEN




Gian



I punched out text after text, calling in favors, threatening people if necessary, because I needed to figure out who was behind the attempt on my life last night. The car that rammed us was a black Cadillac Escalade with dark tinted windows. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a front license plate, and I never got a look at the back.

I had Tony making inquiries about a car in the shop with similar characteristics. Unless the car was stolen or the owner was a stunade, I didn’t expect him to find anything. Sal was spending the day poking around Brighton Beach to see what the Russians were up to, and I’d been avoiding Dominick’s underboss, Nico DeAngelo, like the plague. Apparently, the attempt on my life had wormed its way up to Dominick, and Nico had demanded to see me sometime today.

Right now, Nico or “Crazy Nico” as everyone called him, was the crown prince in the Trassato family. Dominick loved the bastard, but by most accounts, everyone else considered him a loose cannon with an unhealthy penchant for murder and torture. Before Dominick promoted him to underboss at the age of thirty-four, Nico had carried out more than three dozen mob hits, and all of them involved systematically dismembering the targets like a seasoned meat butcher.

I gripped the phone tightly in my hand, and I reread the coded messages for the third time. Since so much of our day-to-day activities skirted the law, we had our own vernacular. The consequence of someone reading plainly worded texts would be catastrophic.



Nico: The country club has a steak special. Do you want to meet for dinner?



The country club was code for Carmine’s, a restaurant owned by another capo. We used the back room of the restaurant for meetings because Dominick had it swept for listening devices on a daily basis.