Page 118 of Fallen Rook

Tom didn’t spare me a second look. He brushed past me like I didn’t exist, two tall, middle-aged men following closely behind him, as well as a young woman.

Jesus. I needed a minute. Swallowing hard, I leaned against the wall and stared as the maître d’ led his group to a private booth opposite the crowded bar. Of course she was beautiful, and of course she sent flirty smiles at Tom, who remained all business. I waited for him to turn around and steal a glimpse at me, acknowledge that he saw me in public, maybe wink by way of apology for blatantly ignoring me, but that didn’t happen.

With shaking hands, I took out my phone and texted him.

Me: Dude! What are the odds, right?

I looked up. He must’ve heard his phone ping, because he removed it from the inner pocket of his coat, flicked a disinterested glance at it, then tucked it back inside.

Motherfucker. That was just plain cruel.

“Hey! Enzo, right?” The maître d’ emerged from their table, returning to me. I nodded absentmindedly, ignoring the tightness in my throat.

“Yup. That’s me.”

“Let me take you to the back to meet Mr. Marini.”

As I glided past patrons, mainly businesspeople on their lunch break, tourists, and bored socialites, I tried to calm myself down. What was I expecting, for Tom to stop everything and kiss me in front of his colleagues? I recognized at least two of the men in his party as FBI. First, there was this Sully asshole, and the second one, the Black guy, was Ezekiel Maddox, the next director of the FBI, if rumors were correct. The third guy, I had no idea who he was. I just knew he was adequately attractive. And then there was the woman. Another unknown face. She was extremely beautiful, with rich raven hair, heavily lashed eyes, and generous lips. She was all business, though, talking animatedly and deeply absorbed in the conversation.

Didn’t matter. I hated his attractive companions on impact.

The maître d’ and I were passing their booth on our way to the back office. I searched Tom’s face, desperate for a shred of reaction, apology, embarrassment, delight, anything. I’d settle for any emotion that would acknowledge my existence right now.

Tom’s eyes were hard on the menu, his lips moving as he spoke to his colleagues.

“…New York is a cesspool of crime, most of it sponsored by the same lowlife family, but it is home for me.”

Lowlife family?

Was he talking about us? The Ferrantes? About me?

“One of the guidos is here, by the way,” Sully said, snorting. I slowed down purposely, so I was able to hear them. “He looks like a pool boy. Easy on the eyes, that one. He’s gonna have a bad, bad time when we throw him in prison.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I breathed through my nose, forcing myself to calm down.

What did he mean, toss me into prison? Tom had said the case was dead.

Pointless to ask, since Tom would never give me a straight answer about his job.

What the hell did I do to deserve this kind of treatment? I got that we couldn’t be cuddly out in public, but he could’ve at least answered my text. Or, you know, not shit all over my family name with me within earshot.

“I don’t care about the Italians,” the young woman said fiercely. “I’m here to talk about how I infiltrate the Bratva. Once we take them down, the Outfit and Camorra will follow.”

Little Miss Hard-Ass had some aspirations. Alex Rasputin was gonna make meatballs out of her.

Sully chuckled condescendingly, no doubt because she was a woman. “Easy there, Duarte. One thing at a time.”

“There we are. Mr. Marini will be right with you!” the maître d’ chirped, and I realized I was inside an office. I hadn’t even looked where I was going.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Cyanide sounds great right now.

“I’m good.”

I stood in the office like an idiot, taking my phone out to see if Tom had texted me back. He hadn’t. Before I was able to stop myself, I shot him another text.