Page 71 of Mario
A sleek black SUV is gliding toward us, the headlights cutting through the gloom of the garage. It comes to a smooth stop beside us.
A man gets out. He’s wearing a suit, but he doesn't move like a man who spends his time in meetings. He moves like a man who could break me in half with minimal effort.
Armando, I presume.
He opens the rear door, and there it is. The back seat. The dark, confined space where I will be trapped with Mario Conti for the twenty-minute drive to my apartment.
Twenty minutes of unbearable tension.
Twenty minutes of my mind replaying the feel of his fingers on my skin.
Twenty minutes of him sitting too close, smelling too good, being… Mario.
Mario gestures for me to go in.
I'm still standing next to my open car door. I reach inside and grab my briefcase, then with no choice, I close my door and slide into the backseat of the SUV. The inside of the car is warm and has me sighing. The leather is soft, the interior is clean, and it smells faintly of expensive cologne and something else… something that is purely Mario.
I hear his voice as he speaks to the driver in Italian. Damn, I wish I knew what he was saying.
Instructions about my car, I figure as he tosses the fob to Armando. Duh, what else would they be talking about?
Then Mario slides in next to me, and the space immediately shrinks. The car suddenly feels impossibly small. I press myself against the door, clutching my briefcase on my lap like a shield.
He is just sitting there, not looking at me, but I can feel him. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer weight of his presence.
We don't move right away. I see another man materialize in the garage out of nowhere and it looks like Armando is handing my keys over. Just like that, someone is available.
That's the kind of thing that a man like Mario Conti makes happen with a snap of a finger.
Armando gets back into the driver's seat, and the SUV pulls away from my sensible, practical sedan.
I watch my car in the side mirror until it disappears behind a concrete pillar.
It feels like watching my old life get smaller and smaller.
The silence in the car is oppressive. It’s filled with everything we aren’t saying. With the memory of my dreams. With the memory of his fingers on my skin. With the lingering taste of amaretto in my memory.
I stare out the window, focusing on the blur of the city lights. My head still aches, but it’s a different ache now. This is sharper, alive with awareness.
I should say something.
Something professional obviously.
Something that will break the silence and re-establish the boundary between us.
“Thank you again, Mr. Conti. I appreciate…” I start, but my voice sounds weak, even to me.
He turns to look at me.
In the dim light of the car, his face is all shadows and angles. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I see a flash of light in them, a gleam of something predatory.
“Mario,” he says. “I told you.”
Right. He did.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again.
He shifts, turning his body slightly towards me. His knee brushes against mine.
