Page 4 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Heath with solemn eyes and his arm around his sister like the world had appointed him her guard before he was old enough to understand what that meant.
Then the messages stopped.
Then Alice stopped.
Then I saw the crime scene photographs, and there are some images the mind does not heal from. It only learns to walk around them.
I am still walking around them when I feel it.
A stare.
Not the room’s stare. Not the collective hunger of men looking at women and seeing purchase orders. I know that kind of attention. It is heavy and ugly and obvious.
This is not obvious.
This is quiet.
Exact.
I keep my head lowered, but my eyes move.
First to the left wall. Then to the bar, scanning the front tables. Watching the men leaning forward. Staring for a moment at a man laughing with a cigar between his fingers.
Not him.
I eye the man in the blue suit who has been staring at the crying woman since I came in.
Not him.
Then the older one with the gold watch and a face too smooth from surgery.
Not him.
Then I find the back corner. And for one second, I forget the zip tie altogether.
The man sitting in the back corner has not come closer to the stage. He has not joined the men gathering like vultures at the front. He is half in shadow, one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass resting untouched in his hand. His suit is black. His hair is black. The tattoos disappearing beneath his cuffs and collar are black too, though the low light gives them the shifting quality of ink beneath water.
Beside the stage two guards following my gaze, perplexed perhaps at what could hold my attention in such a horrifying situation.
“Savarese doesn’t usually come to these himself,” one mutters just loud enough for me to hear.
The other answers with a hint of amusement, “Maybe he heard the inventory was worth it tonight.”
He looks completely still.
Not relaxed.
Still.
There is a difference.
Relaxed men are unaware of danger. Still men are the danger.
His eyes are on me. Only me. I know him instantly. Stefano Savarese, The Don of Miami.
I run through the facts internally: Thirty-five. Old bloodline, with all the new violence. A man with enough legitimate business holdings to shake hands with politicians, yet enough bodies behind him that men lower their voices when they speak his name. Or avert their eyes when he enters a room. He’s not supposed to be here tonight. Not according to any of the intel I was provided. Not according to the informant Raven trusted enough to let me go undercover on this assignment.
Savarese was not on the list.
