Page 22 of Rooke
“I really don’t think there are any places to eat around here,” she says. “Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”
I tip the cab driver and he burns off down the street without so much as a thank you; this really isn’t a safe area to be loitering around after dark. If you’re connected, though… If you’re on the guest list at La Cucina del Diavolo, no one will dare touch you. It just so happens that Iamon that guest list. When the Barbieri family needs an unmarked car or something fast to get them from point A to B, they have me on speed dial. They pay well, and they pay on delivery, which means I pick up their calls whenever I see their number lighting up my cell. One of the perks of occasionally working for one of the most dangerous families in New York is that I have access to places like this.
Sasha’s hand tightens around my arm. She has a wired, hazy look on her face. “I think we should find another cab, Rooke. This is a shitty neighborhood.”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Just hold on for a second and we’ll be inside. You’ll see for yourself.” She’s shocked when I walk up to the warehouse shutter doors in front of us—I can see how instantly wary she is. Someone slides back the metal grate in the shutter door, and a grim, sour-faced Italian man in his late fifties eyeballs us, first me and then Sasha.
“Name?” he demands.
“Blackheath.”
He doesn’t even blink. On the other side of the shutter door, a number of bolts slide free, and then the shutter is flying upward, bathing us in a shaft of pale blue neon light. “Straight through,” the Italian heavy says. “Second room. We have a private function on tonight. I highly recommend you don’t walk through any doors marked with an X.”
“Got it.” I take Sasha’s hand again and lead her forward before she can object. This is probably scary for her right now, but it won’t be for long. Once we’re seated and we’re looking at a menu, the experience will be a familiar one. A glass of wine will calm her nerves, and then we can get on with the business of the evening.
I head through another heavy steel door, and suddenly the air is filled with smoke and the sound of many conversations taking place at once. The first dining room is packed, full of New York’s underground criminal elite. The men wear expensive Italian suits and smoke cigars at their tables; the women are scantily dressed with smoky eyes, dripping with diamonds that even an Arabic sheik couldn’t afford. People watch us as we weave through the space, heading toward the back room.
Yet another heavy, studded door…
A long, dark corridor stretches out before us, doors on either side. These are the rooms the doorman warned us against. Small blue crosses like the one on the outside of the building glow dimly by the door handles. Sasha jerks my arm, finally trying to pull me to a stop. “What is this place?” she hisses. “I don’t think I’m meant to be here, Rooke. This is a really bad idea.”
She reallyisn’tmeant to be here. This isn’t a part of the city she will have encountered before. No doubt she would never have encountered it if she hadn’t run into me. She did run into me, though, and I want her to know about this.
Maybe I’m sick, and maybe I’m deluded, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’m going to tell her everything about me. I’m going to tell her all of the nefarious, illegal things I’ve done in my lifetime, as well as all of the nefarious, illegal things I’ll probably do in the future. I’m going to tell her all of this tonight as we eat dinner. It’ll be a crapshoot. She’s probably going to get up and storm out of here without even considering what I’m telling her. But, on the other hand… she might not. She might listen to what I have to say and decide it’s not such a big deal. Wouldn’t that be a fucking kicker?
“Look. You’re one hundred percent safe right now, okay?” I tell her. “I said I was going to look out for you, and I am. If you really want to leave, though, I’ll take us to The Cheesecake Factory or something and we can have a perfectly bland, perfectly boring night instead. If you want to try something new, something exciting, then stop worrying and follow me.”
It’s a risk, asking her to follow me. It’s the same as asking her to trust me, and she has absolutely no reason to do that. Not yet, anyway. By the end of the night, that will have changed, but for now…
Sasha glances around. We’re alone in the corridor. The blue neon from the crosses on the doors reflects on the gold sequins of her dress, sending showers of pale green light skittering all over the walls every time she moves. Her eyes are round and wide. Her pupils are three times the size they should be. She opens her mouth to speak, then frowns. “Okay. Fine. I have enough problems to contend with. Don’t make this another one. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The second room is less busy than the first. I’ve learned over time that this means one of the Barbieri family members must be back here, holding a meeting or having dinner. Booths line the outer edges of the room, all of which are dark and in shadow. There’s no smoke back here, thank god. The space smells like food,deliciousfood, and the sweet tang of alcohol. Sasha surveys the polished grey marble underfoot, the waterfalls of light cascading from the chandeliers overhead, and the rows of silverware glinting on the tables. She doesn’t look quite so gripped by fear anymore. She’s still hesitant, though, that much is very clear.
A waiter in a pristine three-piece suit seats us in a booth. Sasha looks like she wants to punch him in the face and run when he tries to take her purse.
“If you don’t mind, madam. It’s our policy that all bags, purses and cell phones are checked with the concierge while our diners enjoy their meals. It makes for a safer, more enjoyable evening.”
“What do you think I’ve got in here?” She laughs, but the sound is off, a little hollow. The waiter considers her small gold sequined clutch.
“Well. A berretta would fit in there quite nicely. Or throwing knives?”
Sasha blinks up at him like he’s a lunatic. I place my hand over hers, clearing my throat until she releases the clutch. “It’s okay, madam,” the waiter says. “I will make sure your personal items aren’t tampered with in any way.” He turns to me, holding out his hand. I place my cellphone, wallet and keys in his palm without saying a word. He bows, and then hurries off.
“Throwing knives?” Sasha hisses. “What the hell? Why would anyone bring throwing knives with them to a restaurant?”
“For protection.” Seems fairly obvious to me. I take all kinds of weaponry with me wherever I go. I left my gun at home tonight, though. It’s frowned upon to have something like that with you when you walk through the doors of The Devil’s Kitchen. The waiter comes back and gives Sasha a menu, tells us the special, offers us a complimentary glass of Sangiovese, and for a moment everything feels normal. Sasha studies the menu, picks out what she wants, orders, and I do the same. When the waiter removes the menus from the table, I reach inside my pocket and take out a different piece of paper, unfolding it and sliding it across the table toward her.
“What’s this?” She studies the printout suspiciously.
“Read it and find out.” I grin an evil grin as she casts her gaze over the black ink on the page. I already know what it says: Gonorrhea: negative. Chlamydia: negative. Hepatitis C: negative.HIV: negative. The list is expansive and conclusive. I’m clean as a whistle.
Sasha folds up the piece of paper and hands it back to me, mouth drawn into a tight, unimpressed line. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
“Actually, I think I’m rather awesome. There’s nothing more romantic than a guy voluntarily getting a swab shoved down his dick for you.”
“How did you even get that done so fast?”
