Page 12 of Marcus

And thankfully, Tiffany’s curiosity made the two-hour drive from Rochester to Toronto fly by in a blink of an eye. From why they had to stop to talk to the border control agent before they could be let across into Canada, to why the speed signs changed from miles per hour to kilometers. The questions came one after another.

“Who lives here?”

“Not sure,” Cella said, digging in her purse to find her phone as the elevator jerked. She was supposed to send a message through to the contact on her phone when she arrived at the address provided—which she just found out downstairs was the penthouse in this very old but prestigious apartment skyrise in Toronto. “But I am sure—”

She didn’t get to finish her statement before the elevator finally came to a stop, and the doors spread wide to welcome them inside the penthouse on the very top floor. She swore stepping into the place, the gleaming marble floors beneath her clicking under her three-inch stilettos, that it was like jumping back in time about twenty or thirty years.

Oh, it was beautiful, to be sure.

Back then, she bet the white décor and gold chandeliers dripping with crystals would have been what was most in style. The choice in floor surprised her, but it seemed like the marble ended toward the far side of the hallway. Art covered the walls, and a few pieces of furniture greeted them at the front door like the decorative table with one drawer to pull out, stained with a deep, cherry red. She didn’t bother to use any of the hooks, or even the small closet, to hang up her coat or purse. She removed Tiffany’s shoes before the two of them headed deeper into the place.

“Hello?” she called out.

Her voice echoed back.

“Is it empty?” Tiffany asked.

A dark chuckle answered that question. They didn’t even make it to the end of the hallway before a man came to stand there. Dressed in a three-piece suit, shoes gleaming against the floor where light hardwood met the marble, he smiled at them with an easy disposition, and his hands stuffed loosely in his pockets.

“Cella Marcello, oui?” the man asked.

His dark brown hair, slightly peppered with gray at the temples, had been slicked back, likely by his fingertips, if she were to guess considering the messiness of the strands. Although, it worked for him. The hard lines of his features gave him a very classically handsome appearance, and his warm smile only added to the appeal. The lines around his eyes as he grinned spoke of his age, which she thought was likely closer to her father’s.

And right away …

Instantly, Cella knew who he was.

“Gian Guzzi.”

She only recognized him because a few times growing up, the man had made his way to New York for different business that he had with her father’s crime family. Through the grapevine, and the inevitable whispers that followed his presence, like it did for the men in her life, she learned he was exactly like them.

Mafia.

Made.

And in fact, the boss of a Cosa Nostra faction in Toronto. A well-respected, and very powerful man, actually. They hadn’t spoke except for polite conversation and hellos at the dinner table when he joined them on rare occasions, but it was always good to keep up with who was who in their world.

Despite living far away from one another, their world was still quite small. No one wanted to cause trouble with another family. It never ended very well.

“That’s me,” Gian said, still smiling in that welcoming way of his. “Thank you for coming today, and also … well, for following along with my little demands about not getting a name of your client.”

Cella kept a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, determined to keep Tiffany in one place while she spoke to the man. If she let her go, it was very likely the girl would run off to explore. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except she didn’t know if that was okay here.

“I trust my father,” Cella said simply.

“As you should. It was a little more than who I am why I asked for it to be kept quiet, however.”

“Oh?”

“I’m trying to keep this a surprise for my wife—Cara. Have you met her?”

“No, but I have heard of her.”

Again, through the grapevine.

From her sister, too, whom Gian’s wife had counseled after a bad incident with an ex-boyfriend who now rotted underground where he belonged. Cara Guzzi had also been the therapist for Cella’s cousin, Catherine, after a particularly rough patch in her life. From all accounts, the woman was wonderful.

In fact, after the death of her husband, Cara’s name had been brought up repeatedly to Cella by literally everyone and anyone who knew the woman. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Cara would be able to help with her grief, but rather that she wasn’t ready to invite someone else into her life to see her through it. She did better alone.