Page 155 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Chapter Twenty-Five

Robert

McLain’s secretary leads us through the corridor at a pace that suggests she’s spent years keeping up with powerful men who don’t slow down for anyone.

Enzo walks beside me, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting the cuff of his watch.

“We should’ve pushed this meeting till next week,” he grumbles.

“We already pushed it twice.”

“Because McLain is a pain and impossible to schedule.”

“He’s also moving eight figures through this project,” I reply. “So here we are.”

My phone vibrates again and it's the same unknown number.

It's the fourth time in less than thirty minutes.

I decline it without checking the voicemail.

“Mr. McLain has been looking forward to this meeting.” The secretary glances back politely.

“No, he hasn’t,” Enzo retorts dryly. “He’s been looking forward to not paying taxes.”

That earns the faintest twitch from her mouth before she schools it again.

We reach the double doors at the end of the hall.

She pushes them open.

McLain’s office is large without trying to prove it, with dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking half the city.

McLain himself rises slowly from behind the desk.

He's eighty-two years old and still carrying himself like people should stand straighter when he enters a room.

“D’Angelo.” His gravelly voice drags through the room. “You look irritatingly healthy.”

“McLain.” I shake his hand once. “You look expensive and deteriorating."

“That’s because dying well costs money.”

Enzo snorts behind me.

“Sit.” McLain gestures toward the seating area near the windows.

We do.

There's a crystal decanter waiting on the table between us, the amber whiskey catching the light.

“My private reserve,” McLain declares proudly as he pours. “Specially brewed and Doctors hate it.”

“Are you still listening to doctors at your age?” Enzo asks.

“No.” McLain hands him a glass. “I just enjoy disappointing them.”

I take mine with a nod.