That gets his attention. He stares at me the way you stare at someone you think you’ve met before, but can’t quite remember. Like he’s trying to place me. Figure me out.
I give him a hand and lay my cards bare on the table.
“The lead prosecutor on his case—”
“The blonde.” He points at me, nodding with understanding.
“The blonde,” I confirm.
“She’s cute.”
“Yes, she is. She’s also very important to me. When this case is finished, I’m going to take her back to DC. I’m going to marry her, have beautiful babies with her, and grow old with her. And I’m not gonna do that looking over her shoulder all the time, worrying that someone from your organization is going to try and settle a score.” I let him absorb that.
Then I tell him, “I have money. I have properties I didn’t buy, cars and carpets, antiques and jewels—and none of them means a damn to me if I don’t have her. So—give me a number.”
We stare each other down.
When he remains quiet, I add in a low voice—just shy of menacing. “Think of this as my big, fat carrot. You catch more flies with honey, y’know? But rest assured that my stick is pretty fucking lethal—and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Laughter shakes his whole body, vibrating the table. “Aye, oh—listen to you. Somebody’s got balls to spare, huh? Sounds like a threat.” He turns to one of the ogres behind him. “You believe this kid, Tony?”
Tony doesn’t believe it. “I don’t believe it, Mr. Bianco.”
“I musta misheard you. Right . . . Brent?”
And as quick as a snake strike, lethal energy radiates from him, like steam from a boiling pot.
And I don’t give a shit—because I’ve done my homework.
I lean forward, looking straight into his eyes. “You’re married, right, Carmine? To the same woman for over fifty years. There’s just something about the girl next door—your childhood sweetheart. The prosecutor? She’s mine. So . . . ask yourself if there’s anything you wouldn’t do to keep your wife safe. Any horror you wouldn’t commit, any law you wouldn’t break. Then . . . you tell me if I’m threatening you.”
Thick, heavy silence blankets the room.
Then Bianco reaches down and takes another bite of his sandwich. As he chews, he tells me, “I like you, kid.”
I shrug. “Most people do.”
He takes another bite. “You gamble?”
“Sometimes.”
He nods, swallowing his bite. “The way I gamble . . . you gotta try and tip the odds in your favor. Load the dice, weight the wheel, count the cards. But after you play your hand—if you lose, it’s over. You cut your losses, walk away from the table. Turning around to take out the dealer only pisses off the casino. Brings unneeded attention, you know what I’m sayin’?”
And I’m pretty sure I do.
Bianco leans back in his chair, regarding me. “So . . . after Gino’s hand plays out, you marry your cute girl, have lots of blue-eyed lawyer babies—and don’t bother looking over her shoulder. We’re not gonna be there.”
? ? ?
Three weeks later, the verdict is in. I’m right behind Kennedy when the foreman reads it aloud. And I’m the first person she hugs after Gino Moriotti is found guilty on all counts.
Kennedy and I go out and celebrate with the prosecutors and agents who worked the case with her. She drinks vodka. A lot of it. It’s a great fucking night.
And then I pack up my warrior princess and take her home to my castle.
Epilogue
Six months later
“Welcome Saint Arthur’s Class of 2000!”
The high school reunion: one of the most excruciatingly annoying experiences ever invented. You have to get all dressed up to see people you didn’t actually like enough to keep in touch with over the past fifteen years. Men worry if anyone will notice how bald they’re going—and the answer is yes. Women worry if they look the same as they did when they were eighteen. News flash—you don’t. Or, if you do, that’s some toxic fucking voodoo you’re pumping into your veins, so you should stop right away.
Vicki and Brian begged off, using the ultimate ironclad excuse of their kids to get out of going. Kennedy was reluctant too. But after my relentless oral persuasion—and two orgasms—she gave in.
I think it will be good for her to face those ghosts, so she can see that even bullies grow up, and more important, get old. She says she doesn’t need that, but I think deep down, she still carries a tiny open wound from those years. Coming back here, with me, might finally scab it over completely.
And to be honest—I want to be here with her. I want to show her the fuck off—her and the three-carat engagement ring I put on her finger last month. It’s not just because she’s drop-dead gorgeous either. I’d want her on my arm even if she was still wearing those old glasses and braces and big baggy sweaters. Because I’m proud of her—not just how she looks.
And—if everything goes like I think it will—I have an additional ulterior motive for coming back.