Page 28 of Her Dark Salvation

“Is this about the property in the financial district?”

“Good memory.”

“Okay.” She smiled, warm and genuine, and it stirred those uncomfortable sensations in my chest. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

She left my office and closed the door behind her. I walked behind my desk, slumped into my chair, and picked up the contract I’d been reading.

My focus was shit, the words a jumble on the page, and I tossed the papers back on my desk. They landed on the letter opener I’d abandoned atop my punctured blotter. I dragged a hand down my face and reclined in my chair, resting my head against the soft leather.

Vinnie knew I was having financial problems. He was also expanding his Source racket and wanted to give me a piece of the action. And after eighty years, I was tempted to sink my fangs into a woman’s neck for a reason other than necessity. What an afternoon.

I closed my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. These contracts weren’t going to review themselves, and I had a zoning commissioner to shake down in the morning and an international flight to catch on Friday. Vinnie and Anna and all my unresolved issues would have to wait. The clock was ticking.

ChapterSeven

Anna

Mr. DeVita’s driver slowed to a stop along the curb in front of City Hall Plaza. The concrete behemoth loomed outside the Range Rover’s backseat window and dominated the Government Center skyline. Everyone but the driver opened their doors, and the cold wind whipping and snapping the flags in front of Boston’s most notorious eyesore wreaked the same havoc on my hair.

I brushed the frenzied strands out of my eyes and gathered them into a fist. I steadied myself with my free hand, wondering how to orchestrate a graceful exit from the ginormous SUV in heels.

Mr. DeVita appeared, a knight in shining armor, and offered me his hand.

I stared at him, paralyzed by his chivalry. And the thought of holding his hand. The drive from Terme to city hall had only lasted fifteen minutes, but he’d been so close in the back seat. Close enough to smell the hint of cigar smoke and musky aftershave. Close enough to see the details of the gold ring on his pinky finger resting on the center console. Close enough to feel the wool of his overcoat brush against the back of my hand. I shivered.

“Thank you,” I said and reached for him. His thumb closed around my fingers with a squeeze, and I leaned into his support. His grip was steady and powerful, like him, and it struck some primal chord inside me, evoking trust, a sense of safety, and no small amount of attraction. I snatched it back, and his lips twitched at my reaction.

He shut the door and knocked twice on the window. The Range Rover sped away, and Mr. DeVita, Mr. Balistreri, and I started off across the sea of concrete between us and our meeting with the zoning commissioner.

Mr. Balistreri sped ahead, his long strides propelling him toward our destination faster than I could manage with my short legs and heels. Mr. DeVita fell back and walked alongside me.

“I assume I’m here to take notes?” I asked with an arch look that matched my tone.

“Something like that,” Mr. DeVita muttered and pulled open one of the glass entry doors.

The foyer’s warmth was a welcome reprieve despite the stale smell of government building. The hive buzzed with professionals, security personnel, and average citizens; they tread noisily across the glossed brick. Footfalls and conversations echoed off tiered floors of the same emotionless concrete I imagined they’d used to build the county jail.

We rode the slow, clunking elevator to the ninth floor, and Mr. DeVita led us down a hall to a low-partition cubicle farm. The plastic nameplate on the welcome desk read “Planning and Development Agency.”

“Marco DeVita here to see Doug Heller.”

“Around the corner to your right.” The woman behind the desk didn’t bother to look up and instead pointed a finger ending in a manicure as sharp as a dagger. “Second door.”

We followed the walkway between the cubicles and offices to a half-open door. Mr. DeVita rapped a knuckle against the wood even as he pushed his way inside.

“Hello, Doug,” he said in a familiar tone.

The wiry man behind the desk jumped, and his thick, tortoiseshell glasses did nothing to obscure the surprise in his eyes. “Mr. DeVita.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and rocked a pen between twitchy fingers. “I—I wasn’t expecting you.”

Hadn’t Mr. DeVita mentioned an appointment?

“We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d stop by, see how things are coming along with the waiver I requested for that property in the financial district.”

The commissioner turned an unnatural shade of white and launched to his feet. He scurried around his desk and past the three of us. His eyes darted up and down the cubicle walkway before he hastily shut the door.

He quirked a sheepish smile, gestured to two guest chairs, and rounded his desk to reclaim his seat. He leaned back, affecting a relaxed posture, but he held onto his pen like a cigarette, rocking it between his fingers.

“You remember my lawyer, Vito Balistreri?” Mr. DeVita asked conversationally and took one of the two chairs. He glanced at me, a silent message, and I sat in the other.

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