Page 8 of Married With Lies

Pausing in a doorway, I spot the silver head of Asher Wingate holding court as a dozen minions hang on his every word. Standing dutifully at his side is a woman whose face is at least thirty years younger than his. She may or may not be the latest to hold the title of Mrs. Wingate.

My right shoulder is jostled and my muscles tense on instinct. But I relax when I find myself eye to eye with my former best friend.

“Cale,” Baylor Wingate says. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. It’s been a while.”

The crooked smirk I remember from our teenage years has been replaced by a bland, artificial smile that makes him look like he’s acting in an aftershave commercial.

The sight of Baylor standing there in a two thousand dollar suit with an impeccable haircut is hilarious. Still, I keep my cool. I’m not here for shits and giggles. This is purely a diplomatic mission.

“Last minute change of plans,” I say and accept his handshake.

Baylor’s eyes make a quick sweep of the territory in case there’s a better option. He doesn’t find one. He clears his throat. “How have you been?”

“I keep busy. Family business and all.”

“Right.” He nods and averts his gaze. “I’ll understand if you don’t have time to sit down for a minute.”

I would bet my car that he’s hoping I’ll say no.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve got a minute.”

“Great.” Another phony smile. “Let’s claim one of those empty tables over by the buffet.”

“Lead the way.”

Cutting through the crowd takes a minute because Baylor has to stop a hundred times to shake hands and kiss cheeks. I’m not bothered by the fact that he doesn’t introduce me to any of his A list crowd but I don’t like trailing after him like a footman so I break away and locate an empty table on my own.

Baylor is still sidetracked by his social butterfly tasks, now exchanging backslaps with two bearded hockey players. He searches over his shoulder, spots me sitting alone at a table and hesitates before attempting to wave me over.

Slowly, I shake my head. I’m not here to make friends.

Bay’s throat bobs and he hastily excuses himself from his fan club. The back of his neck flushes red. He’s nervous. I guess it’s no fun having your old best friend-turned-mobster show up when you’re trying to be all reputable and shit.

Another tray of champagne appears in front of my face. This time I take a glass.

A shrill laugh slices through the rest of the noise. Hadley Wingate tosses a curtain of shiny blonde hair and hangs on the arm of some vacant dude in a tux. They are talking to the actor who stars in all those space cowboy movies. She hasn’t looked in my direction and I hope it stays that way. Baylor’s sister, two years older and full of boarding school attitude, was always a pain in the ass.

“Sorry about that.” Baylor sinks into a chair and adjusts his tie.

“No problem,” I say smoothly and pluck Richie’s envelope from my front pocket. I’m confident no one can see when I slide it into Baylor’s hand beneath the table. “A gift. From the desk of Richie Amato.”

He freezes. Our eyes lock. He breaks the stare first, swiveling his gaze back and forth to see if we’re being watched. It’s hard to say if anyone among this glitz and glamor crowd would be able to pick out a member of the caporegime belonging to one of the biggest mob families on the east coast. I highly doubt it.

People like this have an entertainment-level view of the mafia. Some of us fit the bill on purpose, like Franco and Brisetti, two other capos in my uncle’s army. Flashy and gutter-mouthed and dripping in gold, they come across like they’re cosplaying a role on The Sopranos.

Not me. I’m a big fan of flying under the radar. It’s far better to be the threat in the shadows that no one sees coming.

Meanwhile, Baylor is starting look he did the time he decided to experiment with some chewing tobacco we stole from his father’s driver. All I need to do is wait him out while it dawns on him that he needs to accept the envelope. He tucks it away in a pocket without opening it.

“Not that you’re hurting for cash,” I say, lacing my hands together on top of the shiny black table. “But it’s nice to know you have the support of friends. Isn’t it?”

He glances at the pinky ring on my right hand. A gift from Uncle Richie the day I became a made man.

A wrinkle of disgust crosses Baylor’s brow and then disappears. His plastic grin returns. “Absolutely.”

He makes a discreet gesture to someone on his right. Looking over, I see a group of women chatting among themselves. The exception is the tall, extremely attractive brunette in the center. She’s staring at us. Her mouth turns down with disapproval. I take note of the diamond rock on her left hand and draw a conclusion.

Then I decide to fuck with Baylor a little.

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