Page 5 of Ricardo

His mouth moves into a smile.

“Ricardo,” he says smoothly.

In that voice, it sounds less like a correction and more like an invitation.

I keep my face composed. “Ricardo.”

There. Professional. Normal. Two syllables, not a confession of exactly what that voice does to me inside.

He stops in front of my desk and glances once toward Mario’s closed office door. “My brother is in a meeting?”

“Yes. A closed-door meeting.”

“With Reeves.”

I hesitate for half a second. Not because I think the information is secret from him. Mostly because I am still figuring out which Conti knows what before I say anything.

Ricardo catches the hesitation.

His mouth curves a little more.

“Yes,” I say. “With Mr. Reeves.”

“And how long has he been in there?”

“About twenty-five minutes.”

Ricardo looks at the door again, as if he can see through the wood and glass and Mario’s patience. “I will wait.”

“Of course.”

He takes the chair opposite my desk.

“Can I get you coffee?” I ask before sitting down.

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“No.”

I nod, sit back down, and return to the email on my screen. “Mario should be at least twenty minutes.”

A pause.

Then Ricardo says, “In that case, perhaps I will take that coffee.”

I look up.

His eyes are on me, amused, apologetic.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

Of course.

I stand and reach for the small tray on the sideboard. Mario’s office coffee is better than most office coffee because Mario Conti does not appear to believe in mediocrity. There is an espresso machine as well, but I have not quite mastered it, so I tend to err on the side of caution.