Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(24)

“Like it?”

“It’ll be nice once you mop. Dust. You know, maybe a few pictures on the wall.” I swept my hand to the view of the city, the busted everything, the sheer potential.

“Let me show you.” He headed out an archway, indicating I should follow.

He led me onto a balcony on the west side of the house. The terra-cotta floor looked to be in good shape, and the cast-iron railing curled in on itself, making a floral design I’d never seen.

“I love this view,” I said, understating the grandeur of the ocean of lights. “I could look out on this all night.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and poked one out. I refused his offer, and he took out a big metal lighter.

“Sit here at night, have a glass of wine. Or in the morning, a cup of coffee, just look over the city.” He lit his cigarette with a click clack, his profile something out of an art history class. He put his fingertips to the back of my neck, his stroke so delicate I didn’t lean into it, just stayed as still as I could.

“You had a question?” he asked, tracing the line where my shirt met my skin.

“Are you a leprechaun?” I asked.

“Only when St. Patrick’s Day lands on a full moon.” He was smiling, but I could see the question had confused him.

“I’m sorry. I had a real question, but I forgot which one I picked.”

Because they were all ridiculous, of course. If he was some cartoon capo, he’d have a dozen guys around him all the time. He’d wear pinstripes and a fedora. He’d carry a gun. He’d say capisce a lot.

“Do I get any questions?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m an open book.”

He laughed softly, smoke trailing behind him. “Right. Open, but in a different language.”

He gave me an idea.

“I’m not going to ask you a question,” I said. “I’m going to tell you what happened to me today.”

“Let me make you coffee.”

***

The kitchen was in bad but useable shape. The beige marbled tiles with little mirrored squares every few feet, dark wood cabinets, and avocado appliances told me the place hadn’t been redone since the seventies.

Antonio sat me in a folding chair at a beat up pine table. “Best I have for now.”

“You living here during all this mess?”

“No. I have another place.” He gave no more information. “Do you like espresso? I have some hot still.”

“Sure.”

He poured from a chrome double brewer into two small blue cups. “Does it keep you up?”

“Nope.”

“Good. A real woman.” He brought the cups and a lemon to the table and set a cup before me. I reached for the handle, but he made a little tch tch noise. “Not yet.” He cradled the lemon in one palm and a little knife in the other. “What happened to you today?”

“Today, my assistant found a picture of us in the paper.”

“Saw that,” he said, cutting a strip of lemon peel. “You looked sexy as hell. I wanted to f**k you all over again.”

If he was trying to get my body to turn into a puddle of desire, it was working. “Everyone saw it.”

“Everyone want to f**k you as bad as I did?”

“My ex-fiancé showed up.”

“The Candidate…” He dropped a yellow curlicue into my saucer. “Bet he regrets what he did, no?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

I reached for the espresso, but he stopped me again, plucking the rind from my saucer and rubbing it on the edge of my cup.

“Do you want Sambuca?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He reached back, plucked a bottle from a line of them, and unscrewed the top. “In Napoli, the men point their pinkies up when they drink espresso to show their refinement. Once they’ve been here long enough, they drink like Americans.” He poured a little Sambuca into our cups.

“How do the women drink?”

“Quickly, before the children pull on their skirts.”

I sipped the drink. It was good, thick, rich. I took a bigger mouthful but didn’t gulp.

“So there’s a picture in the paper of us, and let’s not play tricks with each other,” he said. “It looked like we’re intimate.”

“It did.”

“Next to a picture of you and him.” He picked up his cup.

I followed suit. “Yes.”

“And he runs to your office, how many hours later? One? A half? Or are we measuring in minutes?”

We looked at each other over our cups.

“I don’t see that it matters.” I blew on the black liquid, the ripples releasing the licorice scent of the Sambuca.

He smirked. “Maybe it doesn’t. What did it take him one to sixty minutes to tell you?”

“That you run an organized crime empire.”

He said nothing at first, just put his espresso to his lips and drank. He kept his pinky down, holding the demitasse with his curled fist. “I’m very impressed with me.” He clicked the cup to saucer. “Less so with him. I might have to vote Drummond.”

“I looked into it after he left, once I knew what I was looking for. You’re being investigated for all kinds of fraud. Insurance. Real estate. And you don’t want me to ask questions, so what am I supposed to think?”