Page 3 of The Bonventi Hitman
I turn to see Bill standing next to a short man.
That's right, I'm Sofia tonight.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Conner," I say.
And tonight, Bill's Conner.
"That's okay, dear, this here is Liam. Good friend of mine," Conner says.
"I was just askin' me friend here who this pretty little thing is he came with," Liam says as he reaches across, hugs me, and kisses me on my cheek. He smells like stale smoke, and his breath carries a sweetness of whiskey.
"Oh," I say and smile because what the hell else am I supposed to say.
He breaks his embrace with me, not before lowering his left hand and brushing my ass with it before taking a step back.
"Have a lovely time, dear," he tells me as I imagine breaking his hand for his not-so-smooth advance.
"Yes, thank you. I'm sure I will as long as Conner is with me," I say with a smile as he leans in and whispers something to Bill that's answered with a nod.
As the night wears on, I notice small groups of Irish and Italian mobsters breaking off from the main crowd, disappearing into quiet corners or slipping out onto the terrace. Their hushed conversations and stern glances hint at business discussions, and I can't help but feel determined by my desire to uncover their secrets.
I make it my mission to mingle with the other mistresses and guests at the party, as Bill, or rather, Conner, has been beckoned to an extravagant 'men's only chat' in the library, complete with cigars and a $15,000 bottle of scotch.
In a mere five minutes of being in their presence, I learn that the other mistresses here are well-versed in fashion, shopping, and the latest trendy restaurants, but not much else. They are undeniably beautiful, yet lack the knowledge possessed by the wives, of which I was told to stay away from. Mistresses and wives don't mix - for obvious reasons.
Unfortunately for me, these women are simply ornamental objects of desire.
I wave a server over and grab a glass of champagne. He avoids making eye contact, smiles, and leaves.
That's strange.
However, now that I think about it, I realize that we have been largely ignored throughout the evening. I should have asked Bill if there was some kind of mistress code.
I laugh to myself.
Mistress code.
As if there's a right way to have a mistress.
I roll my eyes and take a sip of the champagne; it tastes expensive.
As I continue my talks with the women, I make a mental note of the different groups and any names I can gather from overhearing introductions or callouts. It's a delicate balance, I'm discovering, maintaining the appearance of a carefree mistress while staying alert and observant. But it's a challenge I must rise to.
Bill is relying on me. I think back to our training sessions at Quantico, where he'd drill me on observation techniques. "Eyes open, ears sharp, Anna," he'd say. Tonight, those lessons are my lifeline.
At one point, I finally manage to escape the mistress corner and plant myself near a group of Irishmen, their voices low and urgent. I lean in slightly, and most likely awkwardly, pretending to adjust my heels as I strain to hear their conversation.
"...the shipment will arrive at the place tomorrow night," one man says. "But we need to be careful. The Bonventis have been making moves lately with similar merchandise, and we can't afford to draw their attention."
My heart races as I process the information, the first potentially useful intel I've heard all night. Granted, a shipment could beanything - drugs, weapons, stolen goods - but whatever it is, it's clearly important enough to warrant secrecy and caution. More importantly, why are the Irish trafficking the same goods as the Italians? I thought you didn't do that.
I make a mental note of the details and their faces, committing them to memory for a later discussion with Bill.
As they leave, I stay seated and finish my second glass of champagne. I'm feeling a little flushed, the warm blanket starting to wrap around me.
I'd better stop.
I straighten up and take in the lovely jazz music playing and observe couples dancing. As I scan the room, my eyes land on a man standing by the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's dressed in a slimming black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled. His gaze is sharp and assessing, and I can feel his eyes on me even from across the room. I recognize him from the FBI photos. It's Gabriel Falcone, the notorious and ruthless hitman for the Bonventi family, the man Bill has warned me about. For a moment, I worry that he's onto me, that he's somehow senses my true purpose.
