Page 68 of Petrichor

The click of the door resounds in the silent room.

A couple of hours later, I’m placing the dripping mug on the dish rack when the intercom buzzer goes off. I walk to the door and press on the button. Diego lets me know that Don Sebastiano Leone is coming up. As in the boss of the Leone family?

I have a very distant memory of my father talking about him, describing him as the cold freak, the spoiled son of the boss. Now he is the don, and Marco is his right hand.

Did he come here to see Marco? I go check my phone, but there’re no texts from him to inform me of the boss’s visit.

I look around, checking that everything is tidy and in its rightful place. I look down at my shorts and red shirt before I open the door and wait, feeling kind of nervous for some reason. The elevator doors open, and two big men in black suits come out, moving to the sides to let Don Sebastiano pass. The pictures on internet don’t do him justice. He’s tall and well-built with white strands in his black wavy hair, even though he can’t be over forty. He’s clearly wearing a designer suit with shiny black shoes that give him a sophisticated air. There’s craftiness in his gaze, and a predatory vibe in the way he walks toward me. The wordcautionkeeps resounding in my head.

“Mr. Locke,” he says, as I take a step back to let him in.

“Yes.” I feel like something is stuck inside my throat.

“You know who I am?” His voice is clear and sharp.

Not a hair on his head is out of place, and he looks even younger now that I see him up close. I always associate Mafia bosses with round bellies, gelled hair, and reeking cologne. Don Sebastiano is none of those things.

“Yes.” I point at the sofa to invite him to sit. I do, while he doesn’t, preferring to stand. A power play move? His men remain near the door after closing it.

I give him an awkward smile. “Would you like an espresso?”

“Marco lets you touch his precious machine?” He narrows his eyes at me.

“I never asked him, but he doesn’t seem to care.”

He tsks, like I said something inane. “No to the espresso. I’m hereto…chat.” He makes a gesture with his perfectly manicured long fingers.

Chat. “With me?”

“And I suggest you answer my questions with utter honesty.”

I swallow, and he hums while giving the living room a quick glance.

“Why are you here?” His words take me aback. I didn’t expect such straightforwardness.

“In New York?”

“I know who you are. I know everything about you.” He pronounces every word slowly. Fuck, everything? Does Marco know, too? “Your father tried to ruin the Leone name.”

I clench my hands, unable to stop the memories from piling up inside my head.

“The apple rarely falls far from the tree.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m nothing like him. This apple rolled far, far away.” And still I bear the stigma he left behind.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you’re over your head.”

I will my hands to relax on my lap. “I don’t see why this is any of your business.”

Instead of putting me in my place, I see a flash of something in his gaze. Curiosity? Interest?

“Anything regarding my familyismy business,” he states with finality. “You on the other hand have no family left here. No friends, no connections.”

I already know how pathetically alone I am. And this feels more like an interrogation than achat.

“Marco is a connection,” To my past and my brother.

“Ah,” he only utters. Don Sebastiano is like a hunter going for the jugular. That acute gaze is drilling inside my head and trying to force out all my thoughts and secrets.

---