I knew I'd need several to fall asleep tonight, as soon as the draft was off to Richard's inbox. I'd have to get totally plastered to avoid the dreams like the first time I'd interviewed him, especially with his voice here in my own home.
He dominated the silence. I'd never met a man whose presence twisted the atmosphere into submission with just the sound of his voice or a single glance at his massive body.
But that superpower was Anton Ivankov's specialty. And he'd rooted himself deep in my life like a supervillian.
My fingers whirled across the keyboard, digesting the interview, re-living every word. God, he'd acted so different this time, and I still sounded weak on tape. I'd bristled when he suggested I knew nothing about the underworld – the only thing I could do. Any other reaction threatened to show him who I really was.
Then there was the way he'd exploded against the glass at the end. How much fiercer would it have been if he'd known I was Giovanni Ligiotti's only daughter? Would I have made it out of there without getting torn to bits in flying glass? Would I have made it home alive?
I wasn't sure. All I knew was I worked without breaks. I only stopped when he pounded the glass at the end, followed by his muffled shout, and then the final minute or two of my own hurried footsteps mixed with heavy breaths.
It was night when I was finally finished. I sent the transcript off to Richard with my commentary and stepped outside. I'd never been so grateful to breathe the cool Chicago air.
I stuffed some easy cash in my purse for tips and cab fare before I was off to the Silver Pear. I'd need them later, when I was so sauced up I could barely stumble out of the elevator at my place.
I'm going to forget Anton Ivankov, I vowed. No matter how much it makes my liver cry in the process.
I ordered heavy, strong drinks, one after another. Someone was looking out for me near the end – probably my Uncle's manager, Vitto, who came out and personally thanked me for the family visit.
I wanted to throw my empty shot glass at him.
“Bar's closing early, Miss Ligiotti,” he said, offering me a big apologetic smile.
“Sure it is.” I turned away with a haughty sniff, leaving the waiter a good tip. It wasn't his fault this asshole was one more extension of my Uncle's eyes and ears, reaching into my life where it didn't belong.
“Wait, wait,” Vitto pleaded, running after me when I slid out of the booth and marched toward the lobby. “He's waiting for you, Miss Ligiotti. No need to call a cab.”
I stopped in mid-step, turned, and nodded. Shit.
One more pivot and I saw him sitting in the entryway, two stoic faced thugs in leather jackets at his side. I hadn't seen Uncle Gioulio since a cousin's wedding almost four months ago.
He was out of his chair and heading toward me before I took another step. He was a tall, lean, balding man with a scar on his cheek. He always joked it was from a bar brawl in his younger days, but I suspected something worse.
The expensive suit covered up the belly he'd been developing in his fifties nicely. His well polished shoes completed the ensemble, always immaculate.
“Sabrina!” His cold hands folded around me, and I returned the hug, bracing as he kissed both cheeks. “It's been too long, my niece.”
“Far too long,” I agreed, letting my drunken tongue sound more enthusiastic than I really was.
“Come sit. There's something we need to discuss. You know it's not like me to drop in personally without notice, but tonight, I couldn't resist.”
My knees felt like rocks as I followed him to the empty chairs. The whole bar staff cleared out. They knew to keep their distance when the real owner showed up.
I sank down on a bench a few feet across from him, watching as he sat between his men. He fished out a pomegranate and a small silver knife. He took his time, slicing away the top, opening it up, using the blade to help dig out a few seeds, which he popped into his mouth and chewed before he looked at me.
“You're a good girl, Brina. My favorite niece. When will you go off and find a good man to marry? I'm surprised you're still here and not traveling abroad. You ought to be putting your heels far and wide while you're young enough to enjoy it.”
I smiled – all I could do to settle the unease in my legs. Damn, maybe I should've skipped the last two drinks after all.
“Can't do that until I've got some stuff published, Uncle Gioulio. I'm –“
He cut me off, holding up a finger, chewing a few more seeds. “You're busy sticking your pretty head in places it doesn't belong.”
“You're talking about Anton Ivankov?”
My Uncle bowed up when I said the name. He looked at the bulldog on his right and handed the pomegranate to him, then leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands. The knife rested on the arm rest next to him.
“You know I am. Why didn't you clear this with me first, Brina?”
Because there's no way in hell you'd let me go through with it, I thought.
“He's locked up,” I said quietly. “I didn't think you'd have a problem.”