Page 15 of His Passerotta

Who would still be here?

Manager?

Hmmm… No, probably not.

Robbery?

That would be wild. And a crazy coincidence that I’m breaking in at the same time, all the more reason to get out now.

More voices sound, one booming like he’s angry or excited.

My lips twist to one side while I stare at the cracked door.

I’m a little too curious not to take a peek.

I tiptoe that way, opening the door only enough to see into the hallway. No light filters from beneath the closed office door like I expect, but the dining area is illuminated in the same low lighting as this afternoon. The voices are coming from there.

Is it a private, late-night dinner? Can people arrange that?

What am I thinking, rich people can do whatever they want.

I carefully plant one foot into the hall and slink through the door, my back pressed against the wall. It only takes a few feet before the booming voice becomes comprehensible.

“I’ve never trusted the Polish.”

Muffled response.

I slink a few more feet.

“...no sign of organized foul play.”

“The outside back of the building was targeted, exactly at the spot the deli is. They knew what they were doing. It’s an organized attack, we’re certain of it,” the loud voice proclaims.

Attack?

I inch closer, all the way until I’m at the end of the wall where one extend of my neck would let me see the source of the voices. I resist, the conversation sounding a little too serious to be friendly, late-night dinner banter.

“Well, it wasn’t us,” someone says.

“But it was someone.” My blood cools at the silky, masculine voice. This one, I know. I heard it just earlier today. “And our three families should take it seriously. It could be us next, Finn.”

“What do you suggest we do about it?” Finn, I’m assuming, answers.

“We find the threat and eliminate it. I already have my resources asking around. They’ll be able to get more information inconspicuously than the Bratva with their aggressive approach. I recommend the Irish do the same.”

Bratva.

Oh my god.

This is not a rich guy business meeting.

This is a mob sesh.

As carefully as I can, I back away, adrenaline commanding me to run but logic telling me to creep.

My spine erects when I bump into something hard, only a millisecond passing before my brain can guess that it’s a gun.

I raise my hands without a word and swallow the fear that threatens to close up my throat.

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