Page 28 of Masked Don

The address turned out to be in Riverdale, up on the ridge above the Hudson, on one of those streets where the city stops pretending to be a city and you pay big bucks for the privilege.

We come up out of the subway at 242nd Street into the thin autumn sun of midday and walk the long hill up to a street of old stone houses set back behind tall iron gates.

“Rich people like it quiet, bub.”

“Why?”

“So they don’t have to listen to us normal people.”

The house, when we reach it, is four stories of pale stone behind a high wrought-iron gate, after which is a short, cobbled walkway. It’s perfect, not a thing out of place. A camera is mounted by the gate, and as we come up the walk, it turns slowly and tracks us. Before I can find a buzzer or a call box, or any human way to announce myself, the gate clicks and swings inward on its own.

They know we’re here, and they’ve probably known since we turned the corner onto the block.

I tighten my grip on Matthew’s hand and tell myself the lie that’s gotten me this far: I can always walk away.

I make myself believe the lie long enough to climb the front steps.

The door opens before I have a chance to knock. The woman standing in the doorway is somewhere in her early sixties and dressed better than I’ve dressed for any interview in my life. Her eyes do one efficient pass over me, noting my shoes and my blazer, and my overall disposition. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s already completely figured me out.

Then her gaze drops to Matthew, and something in her face simply gives way, the composure folding clean down and shifting to something softer, more open.

“You’re Miss Callahan.” It isn’t a question. Then, to Matthew, gentler: “And who is this gentleman?”

Matthew considers her question with adorable gravity. “I’m Matthew. I’m four.”

“Four?” She crouches, just like that, in her good skirt, on the marble, so she’s at eye level with him. There’s an accent under her English, Italian worn smooth by a long time in the US. “That’s a very important and wonderful age. I happen to have butter cookies that are also very wonderful. Later, perhaps, if your mother permits, you can try one.”

Matthew’s eyes light up at the mere mention of cookies, and he turns to me so quickly, he practically falls over. “Mama, can you permit me a cookie?” he asks, dragging out the new word.

The warmth banks back down into something cooler, but I caught it. The woman who runs this house has a soft spot for kids. I file it in the good column. I take whatever good I can get.

“Marta Rossi,” she says. “I am the house manager. Come in, both of you.”

The inside of the mansion feels like a different planet. Black-and-white marble polished to a mirror shine. A staircase curving up four floors. Fresh flowers in silver urns, a chandelier, ancestors in heavy gold frames. And a hush over all of it that makes me think of a tomb.

Matthew tips his head all the way back to look at the chandelier and lets out a soft, “Woooow.”

Marta walks us toward a set of double doors at the far end of the hall and stops a few feet short of them. “A word before you go in.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “He will not raise his voice. He will not be unkind to you. He will simply decide, somewhere in the first few minutes, whether you are worth his time. And if you’re not, he’ll dismiss you with a nod. Then I’ll lead you out of here, and you’ll never see him or this place again.”

I can tell this is a speech she’s given before. “That’s comforting,” I say wryly.

“It isn’t meant to be.” Her gaze flicks down to Matthew just for a moment, and something moves behind it that I can’t name, something almost like worry, gone before I can be sure I saw it. “But I’ll tell you what I told the others, which not one of them understood. He isn’t looking for someone who’s afraid of him.”

Before I can ask why anyone would be, a man walks down the hall toward us, built like a tank in a tailored suit. He’s in his early sixties, and he moves with the calm of a man nothing on this earth could surprise.

“Carmine Rossi,” Marta says, and a glance passes between the two of them.

“Miss Callahan.” Carmine’s voice is low and level. “He’s expecting you. My wife can take the boy through to the kitchen, if you’d prefer. Cookies may have been mentioned.”

I could hand Matthew off and walk in clean, just a competent woman in a decent blazer. It would be easier. I can’t do it.

“Thank you,” I say. “But he’ll stay with me. He’s part of the arrangement. Better your client knows that now than wastes either of our time.”

Carmine looks at me for a long moment, then the ghost of something that might be approval crosses his otherwise expressionless face.

“Fair,” he says and opens the doors. “Go on in, then, both of you.”

“Cookies after?” Matthew asks me.