Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
In less than five minutes, a young, redheaded woman in dark glasses glides into the booth opposite me. She’s pale and tall, her arms too thin in the pink and white uniform. The waitress swings by to serve us both cups of coffee, and the young woman waits until she leaves to speak.
“Lucrezia Romano,” she says in a melodious tone. Her hair clashes with the pink in her uniform but frames her face perfectly. She’s startlingly lovely, but none of the workmen give her so much as a glance. Not that she noticed them. She’s blind under those dark, round John Lennon glasses.
“You asked for the special?” Her voice rings like a bell across a city square.
“I did,” I confirm.
“How can we help you?”
“I have an appointment today at noon. With Stephanos.”
Her lips pinch together. “My mothers told me you’ve been here before asking for his location.”
“Now I have it.” I set the burner phone Victor unlocked for me on the table. I impersonated Victor enough to get Stephanos to send over the meeting place, a restaurant on the edge of his territory. “I pay the tithe.”
“You have for some time, or so my mothers tell me. You’ve been on this quest for so long.” Her voice echoes strangely, as if we’re in a grand cathedral and not a cramped diner. “I will give you the choice now to turn back.”
I lean in. “There is no turning back. I know Stephanos murdered my mother. It’s taken me years to uncover this information, and by the time I did, my father was too old to do anything about it.”
“And your brother?”
I don’t ask how she knows about Gino. I just scoff.
She nods. “Your quest is true. We will aid you, but we require a boon.” She slides the burner phone back towards me. “Speak to your cousin. He knows you’re a frequent patron of ours. He’s been calling for you. Use the phone booth in the corner.”
I head to the phone booth and settle in. As soon as I sit down, the phone in front of me rings with a bright sound. I wince and pick it up.
“Lula.” Royal uses my family nickname. “Where are you?”
“You know where I am. I’m surprised you don’t have eyes on this place.”
“I heard about the wedding. You didn’t invite me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
He curses in Italian, softly enough that I know his wife Leah must be just out of earshot. “This is madness,” he says. “What can I say or do to turn you back?”
“There’s nothing,” my voice chokes up. “Tell my brother that it’s over.”
“I could kill your father for putting you on this crazy quest.”
“He’s already dead.” And so am I. Royal and I both know there’s little chance I’ll come back from this. I’m going to walk into Stephanos’ lair with all the weapons I can carry.
“At least tell me your plan. I can send backup. I will support you in this.”
“No, you can’t. You don’t have enough men.” Our family is still reeling from the stupid moves his father made. “And we still don’t know who the mole is.” While he was in charge, Royal’s father had gone so far as to make deals with Stephanos. We did our best to sever the relationship, but now and again, shipments would go missing.
“Whoever it is will run to Stephanos and warn him as soon as you give the word about our plan.”
Royal curses.
I’m right, and he knows it.
“Lula, per l’amor di Dio—”
Instead of hanging up, I place the phone down, letting Royal continue to try to convince the empty booth not to walk into the lion’s den alone.
Royal will never forgive me for what I’m about to do. But it won’t matter because I’ll be dead.
Something clicks, and a secret panel opens in front of my legs, offering a black briefcase. I lean down and take it. It’s heavier than it looks, but I steel my arm and carry it out of the phone booth.
The redhead is waiting. “Follow me.” She leads me back through the kitchen, past two stocky, short-order cooks with tattoo sleeves. The scent of French fries and fried meat is strongest here, and the air has an oily thickness to it that makes it feel like grease is coating my skin.
Near the back door, a white-haired woman with a red bandana wrapped around her head sits hunched over a big silver bowl, peeling potatoes. A mountain of brown peels is piled next to her. My guide stops in front of her. We both wait in respectful silence for the old woman to raise her head.
“Madonna,” I murmur.
“Oh no, not me,” the old woman cackles and nods to the far side of the kitchen, where a tall woman stands, Viking-blonde hair with threads of gray streaking through it pulled back, stirring a large pot of soup. “That would be that one. And I see you’ve met our young one. I’m the other.”