Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(34)

I turned in and was greeted by a balding guy with a chambray shirt and moustache. He opened the door as soon as I stopped.

“Ma’am,” he said, “we don’t do German cars.”

I looked up at the sign. What had looked like every brand in the universe was actually every brand in Italy. A quick glance around the lot revealed Maseratis, Ferraris, Alpha Romeos, but no German, Japanese, or American cars.

“It won’t turn over,” I said. “Could you hold it until I get a tow? I’ll pay for the storage.”

“You got it.” He turned to Paulie. “Sir? Are we charging?”

“No f**king way. She keeps it here as long as she needs to.” He held his hand to me. “Come on to the back.”

His manner was so friendly and professional, I thought nothing of following him. I thought I’d find coffee, a seat, a stale donut perhaps. But as I walked through the hustle of the lot into the dim garage, where everything looked dusted with grime, a man in a clean, dark yellow sweater and grey jacket looked up into the underbelly of an old Ducati, exposing the tautness of his throat. Such a vulnerable position, yet he held it with supreme confidence. Antonio. Another chance meeting that I was beginning to think had little to do with the natural laws of probability.

“Spin,” called Paulie from behind me.

When Antonio pulled his arms down from the Ducati, he saw me and seemed as surprised at my presence. I kept doing probabilities in my head, switching the numbers between him knowing and not knowing.

“Contessa?” he said, glancing at me then his friend.

“Up by the casa di tuorlo,” Paulie said.

A concerned look crossed Antonio’s face, but then it was gone with a nod and a smile. He snapped a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the engine grease off his fingers. Having erased reactions from my face my whole life, I knew exactly what he was doing. He was collecting himself from surprise.

“I got this, Pauls.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ll be in the office,” Antonio said.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Paulie held out his hand. They shook on it.

“Benny!” Antonio called to a stocky man tapping at a smudged keyboard. “Friction plates, rubber, and rings, okay?”

“You got it, boss.”

Boss? Okay. Lawyer. Restaurateur. Mechanic.

“Come on.” He held out his hand for me.

I didn’t take it. I trusted him less and less as the minutes wore on. Antonio just turned and walked through a door, holding it open as he passed into a clean, sundrenched room with industrial grey carpet and car posters.

I followed him. Coffee had been set up for the people waiting and reading magazines. Behind a counter with phone banks and more magazines sat a woman in her fifties.

“Spin,” she said in a thick Italian accent, handing him a clipboard. “Sign please. I want to order the paint.”

He signed without looking and walked to another door marked “Private.”

I stopped. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“I have the same feeling.”

The middle-aged woman went about her business as if nothing was happening.

“You could have called if you wanted to see me,” he continued.

“I didn’t come to see you.” With those words, I realized the trouble I was in. I’d been asking questions behind his back. Investigating. I couldn’t imagine how angry he would be. I had no reason to be in that neighborhood except to stare at a bunch of innocently acquired property that was just a cluster of buildings with zero illegal activity surrounding them. Maybe that was my secret weapon.

“Really?” he said with a raised brow.

I smiled coyly. “I’m here now.”

He opened the door and smiled back, but I couldn’t tell if he’d fallen for my act or not. The office was walled in glass and striped with shadows from natural wood blinds. The décor was warmer than the rest of the business, with a dark wood desk with clawfoot legs, shelves with car manuals, and a buffed matte wood floor. Antonio closed the blinds, and my eyes adjusted. The diffused light was still more than enough to see by.

“So,” he said, “up by the yellow house?”

“There was a yellow house. Needs a paint job.”

He nodded. “It’s not for sale.”

“I hoped the owner would be in. Maybe I could talk him into selling.”

“You couldn’t afford it.” He took two steps forward and was right in front of me.

“I have lots of money,” I whispered.

“He isn’t interested in your money.”

His lips were on mine before he’d even completed the last vowel. His tongue found my tongue, and his hands were under my shirt, caressing my ribs, slipping under my bra. He believed it. He believed I’d come to the neighborhood hoping to see him. Maybe there was a sliver of truth to that. My legs wrapped around him, and he put his hand up my skirt unceremoniously.

He pressed his hips into the thin lace of my underwear. Would he rip another pair? I hoped so. From the bottom of my pelvis, I hoped he would.

“I don’t have hours to f**k you like you deserve.” He slipped a finger under my panties, finding where I was wettest. “I have a few minutes to make you hold back a scream.”