Page 50 of Dark Wolf Soul
The lighting is dim, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. As they do, I inhale the scent of Italian cooking. My stomach grumbles for it, but I shove that aside and scan the dining room. It’s empty, but there’s a coffee mug and ashtray sitting out on the table in the back.
I start toward it, but movement behind the bar startles me.
“You looking for a table?”
A man stands behind the mahogany bar, polishing a glass with a rag. He’s older than me by a couple of decades with shaggy hair and stubble. There’s a hardness in his eyes that has me stopping where I am.
“I’m looking for Franco,” I say.
His stare intensifies. “What do you want with Franco?”
“I’m his—”
“I know who you are.”
That startles me into silence. If he knows, then why is he giving me the run-around?
“Bobby,” a male voice calls out.
A door at the back of the restaurant swings open, and a man not much older than me walks out. He’s broad-shouldered and dressed in a suit that looks more expensive than anything I could ever hope to own. The way he walks, with confidence edging straight into conceit, cancels out the fact that he’s mildly handsome.
“Pop said he wants you to—”
The newcomer stops when he catches sight of me, his brown eyes narrowing. “What the fuck do you want?”
I tense. This is not the welcome I expected. And I’m running out of time.
“I want to talk to Franco,” I say in what I hope is a tone that is not to be fucked with. “Now.”
The suited stranger scowls but turns around and yells through the swinging door, “Yo, pops. The little pole-dancing princess is here.”
I clamp down on my tongue before I can snap back some snide reply about his choice of nickname for me. Already, I can feel the bartender’s eyes glued to me in a way that has my nerves dancing on edge. Message delivered, the suit stalks toward me. His open suit jacket moves as he walks, and I glimpse a pistol tucked at his hip.
My body tenses as he gets closer, but I keep my chin high, refusing to let him see me squirm.
“You got some fucking nerve, walking in here like you’re some prodigal coming home,” he says to me.
“I’m here because I was kidnapped by the Diavolo family,” I say.
His brows lift. “You trying to tell me you escaped Vincenzo Diavolo?”
“Yes.”
He snorts. “Bullshit.” He glances back at the bartender. “It’s a fucking trap. Post up at all exits and call for backup.”
The bartender sets the glass and rag aside and pulls out a phone then promptly starts texting. So much for Grey’s exit strategy. Before walking in here, I was convinced I wouldn’t need his help, but now I’m not so sure.
The suited stranger turns back to me, but his next words are cut off by another man stepping through the swinging doors. His hair is gray, and his dress shirt is wrinkled and coming untucked. A gold watch gleams from his wrist, and a thick gold chain wraps around his neck, sparkling beneath the restaurant lights. He looks more suited to car sales than running a mafia, but I’ve heard enough about what he’s capable of not to underestimate him just yet. Besides, it’s his sharp eyes that strike me now—they don’t miss a thing.
“What is it, Dom?” he says as he strides toward us. His expression changes at the sight of me, though it’s not exactly friendly. More like cold and closed off. “Well—well, what do we have? A special visitor.”
I glance pointedly at the suited asshole—Dom, apparently. He doesn’t move. “I’d hoped we could speak alone.”
“You can say anything you have to say in front of Dom.”
I ignore the smug look Dom tosses my way and focus instead on the older man, who is supposedly my grandfather.
“You’re Franco Giovanni?” I ask.
