Page 29 of Her Dark Salvation

Mr. Balistreri remained behind us, hands clasped and feet parted in an intimidating, authoritative stance. Mr. DeVita’s lawyer stood about the same height as his boss, but with his stockier build, previously broken nose, and curly black hair, he looked like an extra fromRocky.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” The cigarette-pen bounced between the commissioner’s fingers. “Good to see you again, Mr. Balistreri.”

“And this is my financial advisor, Ann Marone.”

Ann Marone?A microdose of adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. The lies rolled off Mr. DeVita’s tongue as easily as the truth.

“Ms. Marone,” the commissioner said with a nod.

“Hello.” The evenness of my voice surprised me.

“Before I forget…” Mr. DeVita reached into the right breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a cigar case, and extracted one of its fragrant inhabitants. He placed the cigar on the desk, then reclined into the old, plastic office chair like a king on a throne. He tossed one ankle over his knee, tucked the case back into his jacket, and folded his hands in his lap.

The cigarette-pen froze between the commissioner’s fingers, and he stared at the cigar as if Mr. DeVita had deposited a venomous spider on his desk.

“It’s one of those Cubans I gave you at Vesuvio,” Mr. DeVita explained with a charming smile. “Remember? With the port? Thought you’d appreciate another.”

The commissioner looked up from the cigar. “I can’t accept that,” he said quietly and shook his head.

“Of course, you can.” Mr. DeVita held the commissioner’s eyes in silent challenge, and the feigned smile fell from his face. “I insist.”

The commissioner swallowed, picked up the cigar, and lifted it in toast. “Thank you,” he said and tucked the contraband into the pocket of his button-down.

“Now, tell me about the waiver.”

The cigarette-pen resumed its rhythmic bounce. The commissioner’s eyes darted to me, behind us to Mr. Balistreri, then back to Mr. DeVita. “I—I haven’t made much progress. These regulations weren’t meant to be altered on a per-property basis. To waive a land use restriction in the way you suggest…” He shook his head and frowned. “The system wasn’t set up to do that.”

“Come on, Doug. I’ve given you plenty of time. We wouldn’t want some other party buying that property before you figure this out now, would we?”

The commissioner shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I didn’t blame him. My growing discomfort with this conversation was making my palms sweat and my heart race. That cigar seemed a lot like a bribe, and Mr. DeVita’s question a lot like a threat.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” The commissioner’s voice wavered across his mumbled words.

A taut silence held the room in wait. The cigarette-pen tapped against the desk. I bounced my heel in and out of my shoe. Yet, the hard lines of Mr. DeVita’s face remained impassive, the easy recline of his powerful body unperturbed.

“Vito. You watch the Pats game Sunday night?” Mr. DeVita’s question cleaved the tension with startling force. “These division playoffs are really heating up.”

“Sure are.”

Mr. DeVita glanced in my direction. “I had a grand riding on the Pats,” he said in a commiserating tone. “Losing hurts worse when you’ve got money riding on it.” He turned his attention back to the commissioner and leveled him with a heavy stare. “Wouldn’t you agree, Doug?”

Beads of sweat on the commissioner’s forehead glinted beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Who’d you take in the game?” Mr. DeVita’s question was rife with knowledge.

“The Pats,” Doug croaked.

“Shame.”

The word delivered an unspoken warning, and Mr. DeVita stared the commissioner down until it grew and consumed the office. Nausea gripped my stomach under its weight, and my hands, already clammy with nervous sweat, started to shake.

“But enough about football.” Mr. DeVita’s stoic features broke into a wide, predatory grin. “We were talking about a waiver.”

Doug nodded, jarring a bead of sweat loose. It trailed down his temple, and he blotted it with the cuff of his button-down. “As—uh—as I mentioned, I’m having difficulty finding a way to waive the land use restrictions on a per-property basis. I’m sure—” He swallowed. “I’m sure there’s a way. A loophole or a statute I’m not aware of, but I haven’t found it yet. I need more time.” He made the desperate plea through clenched teeth.

“That’s why I brought Vito.”

The commissioner’s eyes darted to where Mr. Balistreri stood behind us.

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