Page 28 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
But I didn’t underestimate Dennis O’Malley just because he lived a life of privilege now. If he was anything like my father, whom he grew up with, he’d started poor and hungry.
It took more than a couple of decades to satisfy the insatiable appetite such an upbringing instilled in you.
“May the best person win,” I offered with a tight smile as I stood and offered my hand in farewell.
Dennis stood to take it, his hand smooth and callous free around my own, his eyes an inch below mine where I stood in my towering heels. He was not cowed.
“To the winner, the spoils,” he agreed as his thumb stroked over my palm. “To the winner, the spoils.”
Dante lived on Central Park East in a penthouse suite that covered two floors overlooking the greenery of the multi-block park. It was an older stone building with gargoyles carved into the layered balconies of the top floors. I was surprised by its elegance and old-school charm. Dante struck me as a glass and chrome, modern kind of macho man in his design sense. Still, I recognized the cost of a space like that in the city and was awed again by the fact that mafia families operated like Fortune 500 companies, accruing so much untold wealth that reporters could only speculate at the dividends of their schemes.
There was a private elevator to his floor, and the man who let me up was as Italian as they came, thick neck, broad shoulders, short in the way of southerners with wiry black hair.
“Ciao,” he’d greeted me with a robust yell that startled me. “You are here to see Mr. Dante,si?”
“Mr. Salvatore, yes,” I allowed, offering a polite approximation of a smile as I followed him into the elevator, clutching my bag to my front as if it could shield me from his Italianisms.
As if such things were contagious and I was in danger of catching it.
He grinned a gap-toothed smile at me. “Shoulda known Mr. Dante’d have a good-lookingragazzato represent him.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just rolled my lips between my teeth and kept my feminist retort on the back of my tongue.
“Busy day?” he continued in the same friendly vein as if we were good buddies. “Got all three floors moving out and in today.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, my interest piqued as the elevator began its smooth glide up the tower.
“Mr. Dante bought out the two floors beneath his,” he said, frowning at me like I was stupid. “Man’s gotta have his family close to him if he’s stuck here. Loneliness does terrible things to the human spirit.”
I raised my brows at him incredulously. So, within the space of forty-eight hours, Dante had bought out the top three floors of a luxury apartment building in order to have his associates nearby.
Oh, but in its own way, it was a genius move.
He wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment building, but within the structure, he had free rein to use the amenities and no one would flag him for visiting other apartments. It was a clever way to slip past the requirement that no known criminal associates could visit him while on house arrest. If they already lived in the building, it made it that much easier to meet and collude.
Oh, yes, Dante was clever.
And powerful, evidently, if he could bribe or coerce people to leave their homes on such short notice.
The lobby man, who was beginning to remind me of some kind of Italian leprechaun with his jaunty grin, short, stocky body, and oddly jovial wisdom, flashed me another smile as he touched the side of his nose.
“Name’s Bruno,” he introduced, sticking out a plump, hairy-backed hand to shake mine. “I know all the goings-on in this building. Mr. Dante’s eyes and ears, if you will.”
“You could be deposed by the prosecution,” I warned him. “I hope you’re not so free with information with them as you have been with me.”
Instantly his small eyes folded into heavy creases cast by his frown. “I’d die before I turned traitor.”
“Because he’s your boss,” I surmised, testing him because I was curious about how Dante’s soldati related to him. Was he a tyrant, an angry heathen like I wanted to believe?
“’Cause he’s the kinda man’d take the shirt off his own back for anyone,” he asserted in a voice that was nearly a shout. He thumped his fist over his heart and glared at me. “Even for the likes of me.”
I didn’t have a response to that, but luckily, the elevator pinged, and the doors slid open to reveal the reception area of Dante’s apartment. Forgetting about Bruno, I stepped into the room, transfixed by the moody ambiance of his space.
Everything was black, gray, or glass.
The round walls of the foyer were a charcoal plaster, Italianate and modern at the same time. A huge circular skylight cut into the ceiling spilled pale autumnal light onto the towering olive tree at the center of the small room. It perfumed the air with its green, rich aroma even though there was no fruit on its boughs. The fragrance instantly took me back to Naples, the trees in our neighbor Francesca Moretti’s yard, and the feel of the fruit bursting beneath my bare feet as I chased my siblings through the trees during the summer.
I blinked away the memories and the accompanying ache in my chest as I noticed the music swelling through the apartment through surround speakers.
