Clearly, I need more suits.
My phone vibrates with Morelli calling me, so I quickly press the green circle to answer. “You miss me already?” I ask right away, making him chuckle.
“Nice. And no, it takes more than a few days for me to get the blues, copper.”
“Ha! Whatever, man.”
“I have news.”
My heart feels like it drops into my stomach with his words. So soon? I’ve been searching for years, yet within days he knows where Nikoli’s sister is or could be? I’m glad, but at the same time, feel like a failure.
“Seriously? You’ve found her, already?”
“Well, not exactly. The boss in charge of everything is hard to pin down. Shit, it’s hard to get a real first name even. Everyone we’ve spoken to calls him either ‘The Master’ or ‘The Don.’ ”
“So, he’s Italian after all,” I mumble, my thoughts beginning to race. Or could he be Sicilian—old school mob, like Mo’s uncle? Either way, it’ll be a total pain in the ass; these guys never go down easily.
“Look, I can’t talk much on the phone about any of it. We were able to locate the brother and get you an in. The only problem is, it’s tonight in New York City.”
“Damn, I don’t know if my father’s jet can get here soon enough to fly me up there by tonight.”
“We have one I can send now. It’ll probably take about three hours for the pilot to get to Cali. You won’t be on time or early for the photographers, but you’ll make it about midway through.”
“What’s going on that I’ll be late to?”
“It’s a charity ball, but with a very exclusive list. We called in a favor, but you were put on the list.”
“Thank you; I owe you.”
“Trust me; I know you do. We’ll collect when the time’s right. Grab a suit; it’s strictly black-tie event. If you have any money in savings, bring it. You were made out to be a rich playboy that’s been kept quiet to society. Grandfather really went out on a limb for you, being he thinks we’re friends.”
“We are friends. I let you drive my car, remember? And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know the type of people you’re about to be dealing with. I’ll text you flight times. The Gala will have a room in your name for the night—it’ll be bugged.”
“The hell? Appreciate the heads-up.”
“The Chicago Capo called in a favor. Trust me; they’ll want whatever dirt they can get on you—or anyone else for that matter—to blackmail. Don’t give anybody anything they can use down the way.”
“Got it.”
“You’re still off work, right?”
“Yeah, I’m on paid leave for a while.”
“Good; this may be a rabbit hole. Once you’re in, you may need time to come out or decide what you want to do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You sound pretty damn cryptic.”
“You’ll see. This life isn’t all butterflies and rainbows. You’re about to get a fresh look firsthand at some shit going on in this world. Just leave your badge at the door and remember this is pro bono work, capisce?”
“I’ve been leaving my badge behind—more than I should—but I get it.”
“Good. Watch your six, Masters; I’d hate to have some angry Russians on my back because you were messing with some twisted Italians.”
“You had me thinking you were a badass for a minute; now you start showing your tail.”
I hear him grumble to someone in the background for a second. “I have to go. I’ll text you.”
“Later, man,” I reply, and he hangs up.
What the hell is it with people and just hanging up?
The charity is actually a real ball. As in women dressed in fancy, shimmering gowns and the men clad in expensive suits. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s full of the criminal underworld’s elite, I’d stick out like a sore thumb with my tattoos and rougher-than-average features.
Once again, my father’s suit he sent me, has come in handy. If they weren’t so damn expensive, I’d invest in two, considering how often I’m expected to wear the damn things. I don’t know how my cousin Viktor can sport one every day. Personally, I think they squish your nuts, but maybe I’m hung a little heavier than he is.
After circling the enormous room, I find myself at a long buffet table. It’s decorated to the nines with a thick, beige fabric tablecloth and fancy flower arrangements centered every few feet down the entire length. Of course, the finger foods they’re offering aren’t the good kind. I’d kill for some spicy chicken wings right about now. Traveling on Morelli’s jet, the crew wasn’t as hospitable as my father’s. Sue would’ve offered to make me a meal or a snack. Not even a bottle of water was presented, and now I’m starving.
Reaching for some toasted almonds rolled in sugar, a young lady catches my eye. I’d noticed her when I first entered the room, but she was carted away too quickly for me to get a good look. I can see her clearly from this angle, and the first thing I notice is how malnourished she is. Maybe anorexia? She could be a model attending these events for God only knows why. That’d explain it.
She places a few petite chocolate tarts on a small china plate, dutifully carrying it back to an older man. His hair’s black with bits of silver creeping in, hinting at his true age. His barely-wrinkled skin and the expensive suit have him reeking of money. He’s probably ten years older than he first appears thanks to Botox and facials. I could never do that to my face; I like to think I’m a bit too manly for that shit.
He gripes something to her in Italian, clearly irritated. When he lifts his head, his gaze meets mine, his features relaxing and schooling his expression immediately. His mask is fully in place, and how fitting, with his overly-stretched forehead.
Not one to be caught openly staring, my eyes quickly drop to the bowl of nuts and the tiny dessert dishes next to it. It’d be so much more convenient to grab a handful and eat them, but I have to appear like I belong amongst these people.
Who the hell are they all anyhow?
I’ve searched the databases many times and haven’t seen three-fourths of them in the criminal logs or on TV. They’re obviously extremely wealthy, but how has the justice system never picked them up? I can tell they’re criminals just by the way the men all watch each other like hawks—waiting to be stabbed in the back—and how they control their women.
“She’s a peach, hmm?”
I’m startled out of my thoughts by the man I’d previously been observing.
“Excuse me?” I reply, and he sends me a wolfish smile. He’s a shark; my gut can feel it already.
“Sasha.” He nods to the frail woman, whose beauty would make everyone around jealous if her cheeks weren’t so damn sunken in.
“Oh, what about her?”
“Tell me, do you like sweets?” He asks in with a heavy Italian accent, gesturing toward the chocolate tarts, his question confusing me.
“Sweets? Yeah, I have my favorites.” I shrug him off, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Something’s not right. This is the weirdest fucking conversation. Is he trying to hit on me?
“Sasha tastes as good as a homemade cannoli, so creamy. Just like licking the juiciest of peaches.”
I have no clue what to even say to that. If it were my woman I wouldn’t be bragging about her flavor to another man, and if anyone spoke about her like that, I’d put them through a wall.
“Or you prefer men?” His eyebrow shoots up, as he takes a drink of amber liquor nearly causing me to choke with his question.
“No, women only.”
“Then you must be looking forward to the festivities later! I know I am.” He winks, wearing a devilish smile. There’s nothing friendly about it. He reminds me of a snake—a poisonous one—and up to no good.
“Yes, of course,” I smirk back easily, completely lost on what the hell he’s talking about but not willing to admit that to him.
“No worries, we’re about to get rid of the wives, and it’ll begin shortly. Sasha won’t be available tonight, but there are plenty others like her.”
Nodding, she approaches us, still holding the plate.
The man glares at her. “I told you to dump that. Get me another drink.”
Her eyes dart to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Capelloni.”
“I told you, call me Yema at these.”
She takes his glass and rushes off toward the bar, leaving me alone once again with the strange guy. Yema Capelloni. I need to store that name away and run a check on it later. Yema watches me gaze after her, his smile growing with ideas.
“You want her?”
“She’s not your wife?” His laugh is loud at my question, drawing the eyes of a few dancing couples in our direction.
“No, you really have been kept locked up tight, haven’t you?” He chuckles, his laugh beginning to grate on my nerves.
“You know who I am?”
“Oh yes, of course. I know everyone in here, especially those with the most money. They all have no idea who you are though, and it’s killing them. I love it.” He claps me on my bicep lightly, acting as if we’re good friends, and fuck if I don’t want to punch him in his throat. My gut tells me he’s nowhere close to being a friend. It’s a ruse, a show in front of all these other people.
Who in the hell did Morelli’s grandfather make me out to be? Rich playboy, but nothing special I thought. This guy’s over here treating me like I’m his number-one customer, and I don’t know what the hell he’s even selling.
“Call me Yema, all my friends do, and I’ll see if I can put Sasha up at the next one for you.”
“When would that be again?”
“Next Friday. I’ll make sure you’re on the list,” he says matter-a-factly and does a motion with his hand.
The music quiets and an old, white-haired lady in a fancy, navy blue ball gown steps before the crowd. A security guard hands her a small microphone, which she immediately brings to her mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what a fantastic evening!” She smiles, and the guests clap softly, nodding like she’s the queen bee. Her shrewd gaze shoots around the crowd, waiting for everyone’s attention.
“We were able to raise five point two million dollars tonight benefitting the downtown art gala. I’d call it a success!” They all clap again, and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. They’re a bunch of stuffy asses dressed in double-digit outfits, worried about raising money. If they’d skipped all of this and wore a pair of jeans and tennis shoes, they’d be able to donate so much more. If it’s really being donated that is.
“As much as I dislike the night fizzling to an end, it’s time we turn in for our beauty sleep and allow our strapping beaus some time to visit. Thank you, thank you all for a marvelous evening.” She finishes and hands the microphone to the guard.
All the wives kiss their husbands goodnight and head to say goodbye to the old woman. Yema leans toward me. “They will be having cigars on the roof while we set up downstairs if you’d like to join them.”
“Sounds good, thanks.” I nod, not interested in the slightest to smoke. But I’ll play along and get ready for whatever’s going on downstairs. I wish Morelli would’ve at least clued my ass in on the events.
The guards escort the wives to the parking garage to—I’m assuming—the limos I saw when I first arrived. Everyone, including the press and possibly the cops out on the street, will see the limos pull off but never know that it’s only the wives in them. Perfect alibi for whatever’s about to take place I’m assuming. Smart. I’d have never thought twice about it either, had I not been inside and able to watch them split up. I’ll have to put this in my future reports for possible scenarios with high profile criminals down the road.
The suits all shuffle toward another set of elevators headed to the top. I beeline my way to the restrooms, ready to hide out for a few minutes and see what I can scope out with everyone out of here. I’ll get nowhere if I go up on the roof. It’ll be a bunch of rich fuckers measuring their dick size, not talking about anything useful.
I need to find the hushed conversations, more than likely taking place in quiet whispers along hallways and in dark corners. The way Yema talks, I have a suspicion he’s either who I need, or he knows the person I’m after.