25
The door to the conference room opens and Dominic enters. I look up from the stack of folders I’d been placing at each spot in preparation for the agency parent meeting later tonight. Dominic offers me the smallest of nods, and I celebrate internally, keeping the excitement off my face—the room is loaded with cameras, probably so someone like Miles can study the footage later and help pick the most vulnerable and maybe the wealthiest parents, and I’d rather not have to explain my plans for tonight to anyone in my family. Definitely not anyone in Bruno’s family.
After three hours of surveillance last night at the bar where Bruno met a few other men for drinks, literally zero intel was gathered. Dominic just confirmed Miles’s success in scoring a car, so we can hopefully follow Bruno via the tracker and then, assuming the location where he lands provides us the ability to sneak in, we’ll plant a listening device so we can hear this time, instead of just watch from a distance.
“I heard Bruno tell Milky that he can’t work tonight because his brothers want to have dinner,” I whisper to Dominic.
“Yeah, I heard that, too.” Dominic grabs half of the folders and follows closely beside me as I move around the room. “So how does it work?” he whispers. “There must be a limited range, right?”
“Assuming we get something inside, we’ll have to be close. Probably half a mile, maybe less.”
We finish up in the conference room and return to the big audition room. My uncle Milky is at the piano, accompanying a little girl while she belts out a song from the musical Wicked.
“Thank you, Emily.” My dad lifts a hand, cutting her off. Then he looks to me and asks, “What are your thoughts on Emily’s song?”
I hesitate, creating a dramatic pause while I mentally prepare my British accent. “Have you had any voice lessons?”
Both mom and daughter look dejected. The mother answers first. “A few. Her strength is tap. She only performed a song because it was required. Emily, do your solo,” the mom commands.
The child, who is likely no older than ten, begins tapping, and all of us stand there mesmerized until she hits her final pose.
“That’s brilliant,” I tell her truthfully, then I exchange a glance with Dad, who gives me the nod to go for the big punch. “But how many non-singing child tappers have you seen on Broadway? How many child tappers have you seen doing anything that makes money or has commercial appeal?” The smiles fall from the little girl’s and her mom’s faces. “Her singing has potential. Especially after hearing she’s not been trained. A good vocal teacher won’t overwhelm her with corrections. He or she will work to evolve the singer already in her.”
“So you really think she’s got a shot?” the mom asks.
“Definitely,” I say with a nod. And yeah, I feel guilty as hell, but whatever. I can hardly worry about giving a child false Broadway hope when there are mobsters to stop. “Especially with the work ethic Emily obviously has for tap, apply that to vocal training and she’s limitless.”
The smiles return. The mom opens her folder and glances over the information. “What about this Bertha Reynolds, is she any good?”
“She’s the best,” Dominic says, nailing that Australian accent. He’s getting better every day. “She’s been my voice teacher for years.”
I nearly elbow him in the side to stop him—Lachlan is from Australia, so how can he have a New York City voice teacher? Beginner’s mistake.
“Bertha was the dialect and voice teacher for the original production of Matilda that opened in Sydney,” Dad says to cover Dominic’s mistake. “Give her a call and let her know you’re with the agency. She won’t charge a penny over industry standard.”
Dad walks them to the elevator, and I can’t help but think that Emily is the twelfth or thirteenth kid today who will be booking a lesson with “Bertha” (aka Oscar’s mom). Don’t know how she’s going to fit in all of those lessons. The elevator dings, and we all watch as the last of the kids auditioning disappear behind the closing doors.
“Jesus Christ, if I have to play ‘Defying Gravity’ one more time I’m gonna shoot myself,” Milky says. He stands and tosses the piano a disgusted look. “Don’t know how I got this job. I asked for the personal trainer.”
I offer Milky a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but it’s half-assed considering I sat in on nearly all of those “Defying Gravity” solos. I glance at Dominic. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”
Dad stops us on the way out. He points a finger at Dominic. “Be careful about dropping back story…can’t get loosey-goosey with that stuff. Bertha’s gonna have a fit about changing her character mid-con.”
“Right, sorry,” Dominic mumbles, staring at his feet. “Won’t happen again.”
Even though I lectured him about exactly this sort of thing right from the start, I still feel a pang of sympathy for Dominic.
My dad turns to me. “You did good today, honey. Your mom would be proud.”
Though my anger is more under control today, I’m still pissed at him for whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. It certainly doesn’t help when he drops my mom into the conversation. But like a good liar, I force a grin. “I learned from the best.”
We say a quick goodbye to Bruno, who’s on his laptop in the office. I watch him for signs of distrust—like if he found the bug Dominic planted—but he’s his usual agreeable self when he offers us a friendly wave.
Today is the coldest day in New York thus far. Instead of walking the ten blocks back to the hotel, Dominic and I hop on a bus. Both of us scroll through our phones to catch up on missed texts.
MILES: 2 out of 3 of Bruno’s drinking buddies from last night are in the FBI database as suspected mafia members
I show the message to Dominic. His forehead wrinkles. “The third guy maybe just hasn’t been caught yet.”
We sit on that for a minute, and then Dominic switches topics. “So did Miles explain things last night? How he got on your dad’s team or why he didn’t know about the Zanettis?”
“Well, he offered to explain,” I admit, diverting my eyes from Dominic’s. “But then we got distracted and then you showed up dangling mobster whereabouts in front of us and that plan got lost.”
“Later, then,” Dominic states firmly. “I need the whole story.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, still looking through my phone, specifically at several texts from Justice beginning about thirty minutes ago.
JUSTICE: need u at hotel asap
JUSTICE: WHERE R U????
JUSTICE: HURRY!!!
I show Dominic, and he immediately rises from his seat as the bus slows at a stop still five blocks from our hotel. I follow him off the bus but struggle to keep up with his quick pace and long legs.
“I thought you were a smoker,” I say, reaching for his shirt to slow him down so I can hit send on my reply to Justice.
ME: brt
“I quit, remember?” He looks over his shoulder at me. Right. The gum. “Besides, I was only a casual smoker. Think Lance or Geist noticed we weren’t at the museum today?”
“I don’t know.” A burst of adrenaline hits me along with dread that comes with the possibility of disappointing my favorite teacher. “It must be something like that. What else could it be?”
In the hotel, the wait for the elevator is too long. Dominic and I tackle the stairs, taking them two at a time for about three floors and then stopping to catch our breath at the landing. We’re both panting by the time I swipe the key card into my door.
“Did she say to meet her in your room?” Dominic asks.
But there’s no need to answer him. When we step inside, the door swinging shut behind us, Justice and Chantel are pacing the front room.
And in a chair near the windows, tied up like a prisoner, mouth taped shut, is Agent Sharp.