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Even my daddy wouldn’t have done this. Not a fraction of it. Certainly not for an informal conversation. He said, ‘The more hype and heat you put into a situation, the more it’s apt to get out of hand. Then when it does slip the chain, it’s going to become an even more uncontrollable beast.’
One thing I can always say about the Fortuna crews. Our men look slick, hot and stylish, whatever the occasion. Even if they’re carrying a little extra hardware. They can be discreet if the situation calls for it.
All of these guys look like the mob in a musical theater production. Big shoulders in the suits, the feet-apart, hands over their balls A-stance. Knees jiggling in the wide pants.
They could be carrying violin cases.
Lines of men form a threadbare palace guard lead up the steps and through the foyer, to the meeting room, like men acting as airplane cabin smoke lights.
In the center of the big room, a pool of light brings back my dream with the bulls. This time, though, there’s only one bull. A massive hulk of a man is sat behind a big table on the far side of the round pool of light.
Men are stationed along the walls of the room. they’re not bulls. They’re decor. A precaution, possibly, in case I decide to make a headlong charge at the plaster.
He must have twenty men in here, at a guess. Perhaps I’m supposed to be impressed. Maybe I should try to look like I’m impressed. I’m not sure how to do that.
I have to walk across the wide open floor to get to where the lone figure sits in shadow behind a big dark table. I feel exposed, like I’m crossing an open target zone.
The man behind the table doesn’t look up from his phone. The screen paints colored light on his face, but only enough to give me a hint of what he looks like. A heavy brow and large, strong features. The details are too sketchy to know his face from the dimly lit, bowed head.
He could be reading texts and emails, or he could be playing Call of Duty or Final Fantasy. He could be watching porn. The only way I would be able to tell would be by seeing how his thumbs move. He hasn’t moved, so I’m only assuming that he’s actually awake.
On a mat in front of him he has a heavy crystal glass. The only thing on the table. It’s charged with what looks like bourbon, though it could be cognac.
In front of the table is a single empty chair. I don’t wait for an invitation to sit. He watches me as I do, like he’s studying something curious that he might eat.
From closer, with no introduction, I can see that he is Alessio’s uncle. Thick black hair and the proportions of his strong cheekbones and nose, plus a cleft in his chin, all of which resemble Alessio.
He’s like an older, jowlier version of Alessio, but with a buzzing variation of animal magnetism that’s completely different from my prince’s. He has the same hypnotic masculine grace, but with none of the humor.
His eyes are cold and his smile is as empty as a senator’s promise. Alessio is completely charmed by this man and I don’t understand how or why. To me he seems totally bleak. A pit of cold darkness.
Rubies in his gold tie-pin and cufflinks and an elegant silk tie don’t disguise what looks to me like an old-style hoodlum.
I cross my legs and flick imaginary lint off my skirt, dangling a long stiletto heel.
A smile barely spreads to the sides of his mouth. His voice is less harsh than it was on the phone. Maybe he had been sitting on a night stick.
“You look fantastic, Ms….” It feels confusing to be complimented by such a powerfully attractive man, and to feel my flesh recoil under my skin at the same time. The point of his tongue flicks across his lips.
He looks at me the way he might if he was be considering an expensive whore.
“What should I call you?” A harsh sing-song mocking twist in his voice makes my chest tense up.
“You should call me Donna Fortuna.”
“We’ll leave that to one side for now. You don’t mind.” It’s not a question. Then, “You want a drink? Wine, a glass of water maybe?”
With a weary dip of my eyelids, I shake my head, once. My guess is the only reason he asked was to make me begin by saying ‘yes’ to him. And probably thanking him, too.
Get me started as he wants me to go on. My gut hardens.
People in business schools love to fuck around with stuff like that, I know. Body language, micro expressions, NLP. All you have to learn if you don’t understand people and you feel a need to make up for it in other ways.
Jerry looks like the kind of hood who studies that crap. The type that thinks reading The Art of War, a few books on management, and some people reading will all turn him into Napoleon.
I hold my breath steady, and my eyes. It’s an effort, though. This ugly fucker comes to my town and he greets me with an insult? I’m the Donna of the third family in this city, and he comes here to try and bully me?
He starts up, “I think that we’ve been pretty understanding in Chicago. We’ve let you alone and not interfered in whatever you’ve wanted to do. You’ve had a good try at running things all your own way up until now.”
