It’s not much money. Page is wearing a watch that probably costs that much. Hell, his suit might, too.

Raymond seems to be thinking the same thing. He slowly folds the test results into a perfect rectangle, then slides it back into the envelope. He passes it across the table to me.

“What assurance do I have that you won’t come back for more?” he asks me.

“My word,” I tell him.

He looks at my stern, steady expression.

Then he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a checkbook. He slips the cap off his pen—fancy, gold-tipped, engraved.

He writes out a check, rips it out of the book, and pushes it across the table to me.

“That’s what I’m willing to pay,” he tells me.

I pick it up. The check says, “$0.00.”

“Not. One. Fucking. Cent,” Raymond seethes. “If I ever see your face again, or this so-called spawn of mine, I’ll introduce the pair of you to a colleague of mine who isn’t nearly as friendly as Porter. I like to call him The Dentist. He’ll pull out every one of your teeth with pliers, down to the last molar. And I’m afraid he doesn’t use anesthetic. We’ll see how well you negotiate then, with a mouthful of gums. You have my word on that.”

I set the check down on the table with trembling hands.

“No,” Raymond hisses. “Take it with you. As a reminder. If I hear one fucking whisper in this city about a bastard son . . . I don’t think it will be hard to find you. And stay the fuck away from my daughter.”

I stand up from the table. I’m terrified that Raymond is going to get up too, but he remains seated. He doesn’t do anything to stop me as I stumble out of the restaurant.

20

Nero

I was up till the early hours of the morning, tracking down info about Matthew Schultz, so I end up sleeping in much longer than usual. It’s past noon when I’m finally woken by a knock on my door.

“What?” I groan, not bothering to lift my head out of the pillow.

“There’s someone at the door for you,” Greta says.

“Who?”

“Come see for yourself,” she says impatiently.

I roll out of bed—literally roll out of it, onto the floor. I’m only wearing boxer shorts and I can feel my hair sticking up in all directions, but I don’t particularly care. If it was somebody important, Greta would have given me a heads up. It’s probably just Aida—though god knows she wouldn’t wait on the doorstep. She’d march right into my room if she felt like it.

Maybe it’s Cal.

Greta has already stomped off without waiting for me. She hates when we sleep in. It’s the Puritan in her. She likes to bang the pots and pans around in the kitchen when she thinks we’re being lazy. Luckily, I was exhausted enough to sleep through it this morning.

I stumble down the rickety staircase, so narrow that Dante has to turn sideways every time he comes up. That’s probably why he has his room on the main level. I can’t stand having people creaking around over my head. I like to be as high up as possible, someplace with a view. Sort of like Camille’s room.

Well . . . speak of the devil.

Camille Rivera is standing on my doorstep.

She looks somber and pale, wearing a black dress that doesn’t really fit the last days of August. She flushes when she sees me, dropping her eyes down to her shoes. I remember that I’m practically naked. I lean up against the doorframe, standing close to her, because she’s cute when she’s nervous.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Camille says, goaded into looking at me by her need to correct me. As her eyes run over my bare chest, she blushes harder than ever.

“Still,” I growl, my voice husky with sleep. “I thought you’d be tired after the night you had.”

Camille darts another look at me, then covers her face with her hands to hide the color.

“Could you put a shirt on, please?” she says.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So I can talk to you without—”

“Without what?” I say, leaning even closer.

“I’m not looking ‘till you’re dressed,” she says, hand over her eyes.

Her lips look very tempting, beneath the blindfold of her hand. I could lean over and kiss her right now, without warning.

But I don’t want to tease Camille too much. I know she came here for a reason.

“Alright, come on in,” I tell her.

“In there?” she squeaks. “In your house?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”

“Who’s home?” she asks nervously.

“Just Greta. You already met her.”

Hesitantly, Camille follows me inside. I see her looking around at the ancient dark woodwork, the hand-blown lamps, the leaded windows with their panes of colored glass.

It’s still a grand mansion, though it is extremely old. Most of the main features are just the same as when it was built—a complicated, asymmetrical shape. Steeply gabled roofs with gingerbread trim. Odd textures on the interior walls.

Some things we’ve added, like the huge underground garage, the gym, and the sauna.

The Gallos belong to this house, in a way you rarely see in America anymore. We were raised in it. Shaped by it. Old Town is our home and always will be. While other mafia families moved to the trendy Gold Coast, or farther north, we stayed right here, in the heart of our own people.

Camille can see that. She sees the photographs of the generations that came before. The furniture older than I am.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks me, eyes wide.

“Well, my great-grandfather built it in 1901, so . . . a pretty long fucking time,” I say.

Camille shakes her head in amazement. She’s forgotten about making me get dressed. She seems shocked by this house that’s got to be ten times the size of her little apartment. Maybe even bigger, if you count the basement levels.

“I forgot how rich you are,” she says dully.

“I thought girls like that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

Camille shoots me a pained look, and I immediately regret my stupid comment. Why can I never think of the right thing to say to her? I always knew how to get what I wanted from women before. It was easy to manipulate them.

But I don’t want to manipulate Camille.

I want us to be in that space we sometimes stumble into by accident, where we understand each other. Where everything is clear between us.

I can never seem to get there intentionally. The harder I try, the more I fuck it up.

“You look really nice,” I say, desperately. “But you know, I like the other way too . . .”

“The coveralls?” Camille says, the ghost of a smile on her face.

“Yeah. I like those. Actually . . . you want to see something?”

“I guess . . .” Camille says.

She looks scared that I might be about to show her my gun collection, or a room full of dead bodies.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand.

Her fingers link in mine. Her hands are small, but strong. I like the little bits of grease in her knuckles. I have the same thing on my hands. If I were to lift her hand up to my face and inhale, I know exactly how her skin would smell. Like diesel, soap, and vanilla.