Page 14 of Striker

Enzo nods and takes my bags.

"Owen, I need to go find Morgan to talk over some bridesmaid stuff. Will you wait for me in our room?" I say. I put some slight stress on the question, just enough that, since he knows me so well, he'll hear the warning —stay out of trouble— but anyone who hasn't known me for almost half my life won't hear a thing.

"Got it," he says.

Owen follows Enzo toward the east villa, and I turn to the man with the clipboard, who raises a disapproving eyebrow at me. Not that I blame him, because I'd be grumpy, too, if I had to organize any part of a Mafia wedding.

"Has the maid of honor arrived yet?"

He nods. "She has."

And leaves it at that, his eyes dismissively drifting back to his clipboard.

It's understandable if he doesn't want to talk to me, fine, but he doesn't need to be so rude. My smile wavers a small amount.

"And where is she?"

"West villa. Second floor. Behind the door demarcated by the red-tiled archway."

"Thank you. By the way, I appreciate all the hard work you're doing here."

"I'm sure you do," he says, rolling his eyes with his tone.

I leave him to soak in his surliness and head for the west villa, which is an impressive, three-storey structure that would fetch me a commission large enough to trade my ancient Lexus sedan in for a brand new Porsche and still have enough left over to take Morgan, Riley, and me on a nice week-long trip to Vegas, where we'd rent out a couple suites and eat and drink way too much and come back with the tans you can only get after spending a week poolside in the desert sun.

It's hard to wrap my head around the money that the Vertucci family has.

I guess crime really does pay.

Being surrounded by all this ostentatious opulence, it's easy to see how Riley got sucked in; she's had her problems in the past, and still does, but even as clearheaded as I am, if I were swept away to a place like this and treated like a modern day princess, it'd be hard to walk away.

Plodding up the stairs — because it feels like I'm plodding, walking on these marble floors in my everyday sneakers — I hear my footsteps echo off the polished travertine stones on the wall. Pausing for a second, I lean in to inspect and run my fingers across the limestone tiles. Yes, they're genuine. And, knowing the heritage of the Vertuccis, I wouldn't be shocked if they were imported directly from Italy, from that most famous of travertine quarries,Bagni di Tivoli, which is located twenty kilometers east of Rome, and which was used not only in the ancient Roman times to build that beautiful city, but also used in one of the most famous museums in the United States: the Getty Museum; this stone is the stone of Romans, of oil billionaires, and of the Mafia.

It's so sublime I shudder in admiration.

Then I continue up the stairs. I need to find Morgan. We have to strategize.

It isn’t hard to find her, even though this villa is vast. Her room is exactly where the clipboard man said it should be, and I knock on the door.

She answers in a moment, then pulls me into her room and a hug that lasts for nearly a minute.

"Dani," she squeals, squeezing me tight. "I'm so glad you're finally here. This place is fucking hell."

"It's beautiful."

"Gorgeous, stunning, sickening, all of it," she agrees. Then, still hugging me, she looks over my shoulder. "Where's your babysitter?"

"Unpacking."

"Good. That means he can't interfere. Are you ready?"

"Now?" I say, surprised, but the determination in Morgan's face quickly quiets my questions.

"No time like the present. We have to get to her, Dani. We have to talk to her. Time is running out, and she is about to make a huge mistake."

"I know. You're right. But how do we get to her?"

"We walk right in."

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