Page 34 of The Voicemail

“Alessandro,” he greets warmly.

“Silvio,” I answer.

We shake hands like businessmen. Anyone watching would see two polished men with overlapping interests. The club owner gives me a careful nod from across the room, then finds a reason to disappear. Smart man.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” Bianchi says as I sit.

“I was.”

His smile widens. “You’re honest. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”

“No, you haven’t.”

He laughs like I’m entertaining him. Men like Bianchi need small victories before they’ll admit why they asked for a meeting.

The waiter brings me scotch. I don’t touch it.

Bianchi notices, of course. He notices everything worth using.

“I hear you’ve taken an interest in Bellamy Fine Art,” he says.

“I’ve been a donor there for years,” I say mildly.

“Yes, but not an active one.”

“I become active when something catches my attention.”

“Ah.” He exhales and leans back. “And what caught your attention?”

I look at him. “You know the answer to that.”

His smile stays pleasant, but his fingers tap once against his glass. It’s the only sign he doesn’t like my answer.

“You always did have a thing for the pretty young ones.”

He says it to get a rise out of me. I don’t give him the satisfaction. I assume he called this meeting because he lost access to Elena. I came here to find out exactly why he wants her in the first place. Hopefully I’m the only one who leaves with what I came for.

I glance around. Two couples look to be on dates in the center of the floor. A banker with a wedding ring flirts at the bar with a woman I doubt is his wife. Bianchi’s man sits near the back hall, pretending to read something on his phone. My man is stationed at the entrance, pretending nothing.

This place is public enough that he can’t make a mess, private enough that he can threaten me.

“You called this meeting,” I remind him.

He sighs faintly, as if I’ve disappointed him. “As it turns out, I have my eye on a pretty young thing at Bellamy Fine Art too.”

I don’t move.

“Elena Hart,” he adds, as if I don’t know.

Again, I give him nothing.

“She’s had a difficult week, I understand.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say, feigning ignorance.

“It’s a dangerous city.”

“Only when men like you make it dangerous.”