Page 174 of Beautifully Ruined
Thank fuck.
I make myself look at the other person on the floor. Whoever it is, is female, but I just see the hair and a dress. She’s not facing me.
It could be Gianna. It could be anyone.
“Enzo, look…” I hand him back his computer.
“Fuck. Okay, I can see your point now.”
“We need to get in there, help her. Now.” I look at him.
He lets out a slow breath. “We do, but our plan of storming the castle with troops went out the window when your mini you went and took matters into her own hands. We were meant to be planting the USB, gathering the information and then tomorrow or the next day, or whenever…storming.”
“We need to do something.” I’m more than aware I’m shouting. “And we need to do it now!”
Enzo doesn’t shout back. “It’s not that simple.” He remains cool and soothing, and I do not want to be soothed. Not at all. Because nothing will soothe me except my girl safe. In my arms.
“Goddamn it, Enzo?—”
“Use that big brain of yours. We need a plan. Going in there without one wouldn’t just be dangerous to us, which is something I’m adverse to, but also to Vi. I think?—”
He stops because someone taps on the window, driver’s side, backseat door.
We exchange a look.
There’s a big shape outside, and he winds down the window.
A man bends and peers in. He’s got the suit, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, and his nose looks like it’s taken more than one hit.
Talk about stereotypical New York movie mafia. He must work for Uncle Gino.
“Yo, Enzo. Gino is not a man who takes to being told to fucking wait. Get out of the car. You and your little buddy.”
He doesn’t pull a gun, he doesn’t have to. He motions for us to get out, and we do, taking our equipment with us. Rules are rules, and we don’t leave our hardware behind, not when we’re in the field.
We follow the thug across the street to a gleaming limo, and the back door opens. He motions for us to get in.
So, we do.
On the big white seat with the mini bar open sits uncle Gino himself.
The air is pungent with cigar smoke, and one sits in an ashtray. One of his heavy gold ringed embossed hands holds a glass of whiskey.
He looks at us, and if the other dude was stereotypical mafia henchman, I’m now sitting across from a Gotti or the fictional Vito Corleone.
“It might have come to your fucking attention, Enzo, that I don’t take kindly to being told to fucking wait.”
He takes a swallow of his drink.
“It’s not Enzo’s fault,” I say, rushing in. “It’s mine.”
“Jesus, shut up, Cade.”
But Gino holds up a hand and silences his nephew. “Go on.”
“My girl went in there?—”
“It’s a training center for the girls who work at The Dungeon,” Enzo says, “which is?—”
