Page 35 of To Hunt A Wolf
And what I’ve heard isn’t good.
I cut my mother a look, arching a brow. “Mafia territory?”
“They trade in information and that’s exactly what we need.”
Twenty minutes later, the open road gives way to signs of civilization. Industrial buildings. Warehouses. And then, offices and skyscrapers. Somehow, out of the fields and farmlands, a metropolis has sprung to life. I stare, a little open-mouthed at the impossibility of this buzzing city existing in what was literally the middle of nowhere five minutes back.
“How in the hell…?”
“Indigo Hills,” she points out.
I see them in the distance. Not hills. Mountains, really. They’re such a deep purple, they look nearly black, and form an almost perfect ring around this valley. And around the entire city we’re driving into.
“The mountains were spelled by the Crescent Coven three centuries ago. From the other side, the shadows play off the light, and it sends any would-be tourist or traveler right around them instead of through.”
“How’d we get in?” I ask.
She smirks. “You have me. And I know things.”
I roll my eyes. My mother’s a little bit aware of what a badass she is.
We park in front of a skyscraper taller than any I’ve seen in this state, but instead of going inside, my mother leads us directly across the street to an Italian restaurant. It’s a bit out of place, considering the casual, family vibe it puts out. Especially amid the glitz and glamour of what could have been the Upper East Side of New York.
I went there once.
Dragged a werewolf with a gambling debt all the way back to Blackstone. Mom tied him to the roof of the Jeep like he was luggage.
“Stay close, and don’t speak,” my mother says just before pushing through the restaurant doors.
A place called Altobello’s.
The scent hits me first, and my stomach cramps. That protein bar is long gone, and this place smells straight up like heaven on a plate. At the same time my hunger hits, I also notice this place is completely empty except for a single occupied table in the back of the room.
Stale cigar smoke hangs in the air.
At the center of the haze, four men sit around what looks like a poker game.
Beers and poker chips litter the surface of the table.
Like they’ve been at this a while now.
There isn’t a single employee in sight.
Two guards emerge from the shadows. One from the left, the other on my right. My mother tenses but otherwise doesn’t react to the threat.
“I’m here to see Franco,” she says with the kind of authority only Vicki Quinn possesses.
The security guard on the left grunts as if he’s about to object, but one of the men at the back table speaks first.
“Vicki Quinn, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
His accent is notably Italian.
He stands, and I see that he’s in a rumpled dress shirt and gray suit pants. Even disheveled, he has the look of a man with deep pockets—and a stomach for violence if the rumors are true. He’s old enough to be my father. Or grandfather. But the way his eyes see everything at once gives me pause. I won’t underestimate him.
He comes forward, arms open, and she goes to him, letting him hug her. She kisses both his cheeks—air kisses but it’s still more affection than I’ve seen from her. Surprised by their familiarity, I pause a few steps from where she’s joined him in the center of the room.
“It’s good to see you, Franco,” my mother says.
