Page 53 of Masked Don

“The offer stands,” Luca says, leaning back in a pointed attempt to look casual. “And honestly, Enzo, you should take it. Your operation’s a mess. The old man’s locked himself in the attic. Your sister’s a regular at my tables. Did you know that? Lovely girl. Terrible at cards.” He smiles. “Word gets around. The elders are old men, and they like a clean house. And yours is looking very, very dirty right now.”

“My house,” I begin, “is my concern. Let me tell you about yours.”

Luca narrows his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I lean forward, letting the pleasantness drain out of my voice. “You’re moving too fast, Luca. Borrowing money you can’t pay back, making promises you can’t keep. And you’ve decided I’m in your way.”

I let that land. “That was your first mistake,” I tell him. “What’s mine stays mine. And that goes for everyone in it.”

His eyes flick to Stevie for just a moment, and I can tell the implication has been understood.

“You wanted this meeting to discuss business matters. Then let’s discuss. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear. You go behind my back, you try to make any moves toward Accardi territory, and I can assure you, the next meeting we have won’t be nearly as congenial as this one.”

Luca’s smile is still there, but it’s costing him something to hold it now. I can see the effort in it.

“You always did think you were smarter than me,” he says.

“I don’t think it. I know it.”

He narrows his eyes again, and I decide this is the moment to force the issue. I stand and button my jacket.

“Now, unless there are actual business matters, I’ll be on my way.”

Luca sits up. “No. I asked you here for a reason. Let’s talk shop.”

I let my gaze linger on him for just a moment before I unbutton my jacket and ease back into the chair.

“All right. Let’s.”

CHAPTER 18

STEVIE

They talk shop, and I take notes.

I sit at Enzo’s right hand, with my leather folio open in front of me, writing down dates and names and numbers in my neat little hand.

I don’t let one single thing show on my face. It’s hard being here with Luca, and there’s no sense in pretending it isn’t. This is the first time in years I’ve been in a room with him, this man I used to date, used to think was special.

But I notice that something’s very off about the content of this meeting. Luca’s throwing out numbers and addresses, like he’s trying to bury Enzo in a flurry, like he’s trying to speak too quickly for me to write it all down.

Enzo presses. Every time he does, Luca leans back, smiles, lets it slide off him, like a man holding a card he hasn’t played. He keeps talking about Accardi business too casually, like a man who’s seen real numbers, instead of guessing at them.

Then he makes his mistake. It’s a small one, the kind you’d only catch if you’d been listening very carefully. Thankfully, I was.

“Take the Bracco delivery,” Luca says, swirling his glass. “Carrieri waterfront, end of the month. You think I don’t know your schedule, Enzo? I know it better than you do.”

The date’s wrong. He’s working from old information. I keep Enzo’s calendar, the real one, the one he told me on my first day that I was never to discuss, and I logged the change myself last week.

The Bracco shipment. I remember it got pushed back. And that means whoever’s been feeding Luca details about Accardi business went quiet before that change was made, and Luca doesn’t know it.

That’s worth something. I don’t know exactly what. But Enzo will.

I don’t look up. I slide my phone half an inch out from under the folio. In my lap, below the lip of the table, I type with one thumb while the other hand keeps writing.

Bracco date he just gave is 7 days stale. Shipment moved last week. I logged it. His source went cold. He doesn’t know yet.

I send it. I keep taking notes.