Page 65 of Bullseye
I am driving myself straight to my death. And probably my father to his as well.
Once Mikey and Tony find Seneca, and they will, they’ll use her as bait. Then, they’ll use my relationship with Don Bordono to get me close enough to him to kill him. Then they’ll get promoted in Ironclad’s organization, and then, that’s where the real horror begins.
Because they won’t just slaughter me for fun, they’ll make me watch all the horrendous things they’ll do to her, before killing us both.
“Damn it, Sen!” Slamming my fist on the wheel, I push the truck faster. It’s about eight hours from Ohio to the city, but she’s going to be moving a hell of a lot faster on her bike. I’ve seen the woman ride. She’ll be able to dodge traffic and take shortcuts and—forget it. When she gets to the city, she’ll weave her way through the tie-ups, hitting the Midtown Tunnel heading for the island before I barely make it to Eighth Avenue. I’m going to have to ditch the truck.
Shit. But… thinking it through as I hit a speed of eighty on the empty highway heading toward Pennsylvania, right now, I have the upper hand. It’s harder to go longer distances on a bike. And it’s freaking freezing out. She’ll need to make more stops. Good, that’s good. So, I’m going to ride straight to Staten Island—so I can bypass the city—and then store my truck on Long Island. The one place I should never, ever be.
***
“Holy crap!”
Checking my phone again for the address Seth sent, I shake my head. This is it.
Staring at the mansion ahead of me, I can’t believethisis where my Seneca grew up. It’s a stone house with smaller buildings set off to the back of the main house. A circular driveway wraps around the front, with a damned fountain in the middle of the circle. A massive porch, complete with columns, surrounds the front door.
The only place I’ve ever seen that compares to this in real life is Don Bordono’s home. And even his house isn’t as impressive as this. But I’m sure as hell not going to tell him that.
Sitting at the end of the driveway with my bike balanced between my legs, I take a deep breath. This is my only shot. I stored my truck back in a hidden alley next to a nightclub where I used to hang and rode my bike here to get to her faster. If fate were on my side, she’d be sitting in there. With her mother. But since she hates her parents, or at least her father, the chances of that are low.
So… hopping off of my bike and walking it up to the front of the house so as not to disturb them with the noise from my pipes, I park it out front and then, jogging to the door, I ring the doorbell.
An older woman with her hair in a bun and an actual gray, maid’s uniform with a white apron, opens the door. She smiles. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, please.” Looking past her, I take in the marble flooring, massive chandelier, and double wrap staircase. “Is Mrs. Villetrio available?” It’s such a long shot, but the only one I have.
“May I ask who’s inquiring—”
“Meredith? Who is it?”
A gorgeous woman in her mid-fifties with tanned skin like Seneca’s, and shoulder-length black hair that hangs loosely at her shoulders, steps up next to Meredith. She’s dressed in wool slacks and a V-neck sweater with an impressive diamond around her neck that’s only dwarfed by the one on her finger. Cripes.
She opens the door wider and looks me up and down. For the first time since I left New York for Arizona a couple of years ago, I feel underdressed.
“Can I help you?” She’s pleasant enough.
“I’m Avery Pairings. I’m a friend of your daughter’s. I’m here to see if Seneca—sorry, Sloane, is here. Or, if you know where she could possibly be. I think she’s in trouble.”
“Please...” Without a frown or any crack in her perfect exterior, she moves back and beckons for me to come inside. “Won’t you come in?”
Stepping inside, I glance around at the cavernous space and the art hanging on the walls. It’s like stepping into a museum.
“Your home is exquisite.” It just slips out.
Raising an eyebrow like Sen does, she smiles. “Thank you.” Holding out her hand for me to follow her, she adds, “Won’t you please come through?”
Following her into a huge front parlor with white tufted couches and a baby grand, I stall by the couch, suddenly feeling self-conscious about sitting on her pristine furniture in the clothes I’ve been in for days. Besides that, I really want to move this conversation along. Every second I’m here, Seneca gets farther away.
“Please, have a seat.” She nods to me as she sits, smoothing her pants as she does. Lifting a leg, she crosses her knees, and I glimpse the red bottoms of her shoes. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I know it means they’re expensive.
“I think I’d better stand. I’ve been on my bike for days. Probably a greasy mess.”
“Suit yourself,” she says with a smile. “But I sit on them all the time after riding. I’m covered in dirt and horsehair.”
“Thank you.”
Daring to sit on the very edge of the couch, I smile at Mrs. Villetrio. I see where Sen gets her coolness from.
