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CAN I GIVE YOU A RIDE?
CORRADO
While I didn’t recognize her last name, she recognized mine, so maybe my angelic intruder isn’t as innocent as she appears. Innocent or not, Michela is smart enough to slip out as soon as I open the door, probably thinking that’s the only chance at escape she’ll get.
I let her because, if I’m still interested, I can find her later.
After I close the door, I notice silver heels are lying discarded on the floor. She won’t get far without shoes, so I linger in the small foyer for a while longer, thinking she’ll come back.
After a few minutes when she doesn’t, I shoot my sister a message apologizing for not answering and asking if she can check Trantino’s last name against our database. Then I call my local contact, who gets my driver out of bed. Sorry, Hank.
I grab the toiletries, shave, and, feeling renewed on my way out the door, swipe the silver shoes. They’re a size eight, and the red sticker on the bottom tells me she bought them on sale. My watch catches my eye. It’s nearly midnight. Perfect timing since the party wouldn’t have yet moved into the cigar lounge where the business chatter would begin.
On my way downstairs, my driver, Hank, messages me saying he’s running late. Men with families or partners generally need advanced notice for night calls. His ETA is only a few minutes out, and while I wait, I inhale the New York City air. Not as healthy as what I’m used to breathing while staying in my vineyards overseas, but bloody exciting all the same.
Over the traffic, I hear a woman’s voice.
I follow the voice two cars down and see Hank pulling my limo into an empty parking space.
Michela is sitting on the curb, her feet resting on her tiny purse, her long hair falling over her face on the side I’m approaching from, so she can’t see me. She’s speaking into the phone, and I pause to eavesdrop.
“Mom, please don’t drive,” she says. “It’s okay. I’ll find a ride home.”
A moment, then: “I can’t call him. We broke up, remember?” She starts twirling a strand of her hair. “I’ll be fine. See you soon. I’m hanging up now. Do not drive.”
Michela slips the phone into her purse and sniffs. I presume she’s crying.
A brilliant idea hits me.
Immediately, I dismiss it. Devils aren’t supposed to mingle with angels.
But you know what they say about angels?
The devil can’t resist.
“There you are,” I say, as if just now seeing her.
After wiping her face with the back of her hand, she stands. Makeup is smeared over her round red cheeks, and her light-brown eyes are bloodshot.
“You forgot your shoes,” I say, lifting my hand and dangling them in front of her.
Because I’m evil, when she reaches out, I pull back slightly out of reach.
She doesn’t try again, but just stands there like a lost puppy. Again, she flips her hair, and the messy way it tumbles over her shoulder makes me want to run a brush through the shiny strands.
I offer her my handkerchief, which she carefully unfolds before cleaning up her face.
“Thank you,” she says, then tries returning the cloth. “Can I trade your handkerchief for my shoes?”
“Keep the hanky and the shoes.” I drop them beside her. Once she puts them on, she bids me farewell and begins to walk away.
I stride alongside her.
She side-eyes me. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you to your car.”
“No need.”
