Page 3 of Valentino

"Of course they did." I keep my voice light, but it costs me. "Because nothing says career milestone like a babysitter with a gun under his jacket."

His eyes flick to me, calm. "If you have questions about it, ask Vittoria."

That’s the thing about Elio. He never argues. He just gives you the door you’re supposed to walk through and waits to see whether you’ve got the nerve.

"Ask Vittoria," I repeat. I plant my suitcase upright and cross my arms over it like a shield. "Oh, I’ll ask Vittoria. I’ll ask her why she thinks I’m so incapable of crossing a city on my own that she sends a... what are you, exactly? Muscle? Is that the word? Do you have a card? Elio Mancini, Professional Looming?"

"You won’t notice me."

"I’m noticing you right now. You’re extremely noticeable."

He doesn’t take the bait. He bends and lifts my suitcase off the floor before I can stop him.

An hour in Milan, and I’m already exhausted.

CHAPTER TWO

Valentino

The senator’s man is lying to me, and we both know it.

I sit across from him in the back room of a restaurant off Via Montenapoleone. His name is Renzo Albani, mid-fifties, and he works for Senator Greco, who works, in turn, for whoever pays best that week.

I am here to remind him which week this is.

"The shipping permits will go through," Albani says. He dabs his mouth with his napkin. "Senator Greco values his relationship with the family. Truly."

"Good," I say.

I don’t move. I have found that stillness does more work than words. Men fill silence with things they didn’t mean to say.

"Then the relationship continues."

He nods too fast.

I let him sweat through the espresso, then I rise, button my jacket, and leave him there.

Outside, Milan is gray and damp.

My phone buzzes.

I answer before the second ring.

"Bruno."

"Valentino." Bruno Sartori is forty-two, the eldest of the brothers, the Don who gives the orders from Chicago. "How’s the senator?"

"Bought," I say. "For now. Greco will hold his end through the spring shipments."

"For now." It’s a dry sound, almost a laugh.

"What is it?" I ask, because Bruno does not call me himself for routine updates. Lorenzo handles the conversations that need smoothing over. Nico handles the ones that need force. When Bruno calls me directly, the matter is usually worse than both.

There’s a pause.

"I need you to look at something," he says. "Quietly. Off the books."

"Tell me."