Chapter 5: The Cold Room

I didn't move until the phone call ended.

Raffaele laughed at something, said "Ciao, amore," and hung up.

Amore.

He called me amore too.

At five he poked his head out.

"Babe, I've got drinks with clients. You okay getting home?"

"I'm fine."

"You're the best." He kissed my hair. In Italian, to nobody, he muttered, "Thank God."

When he was gone I went to Tommaso's office and closed the door.

He looked up from a spreadsheet.

"Thirty cases Tuesday," I said in Italian. "Same labels. The warehouse guys don't look. Chiara takes ten for the steakhouse."

He set his pen down very carefully.

"Chiara."

"My best friend. The sommelier. The one with the lingerie."

"The steakhouse on 52nd."

"Yes."

He stood up and took a ring of keys off a hook behind his desk.

"Tonight," he said. "After the dock closes."

At ten o'clock the warehouse was dark except for the red exit signs.

Tommaso unlocked a steel door at the back marked BONDED, NO ENTRY.

Cold air rolled out over our ankles.

Racks of wine went up to the ceiling in long aisles, bottles lying on their sides.

I was in my ugly navy blouse and my denim jacket.

I was freezing almost immediately.

He walked fast, reading the ends of the racks with his phone light.

"Where do we look?" I whispered.

"Why are you whispering?"

"Why aren't you?"

"Because I own the keys."

"I own the building."

He stopped and turned.

The phone light was under his chin.

He looked like a ghost who was trying not to smile.

"Technically," he said.

We found them in the last aisle, behind a pallet of olive oil.

Twelve cases, stacked against the wall, unmarked except for a strip of tape.

Tommaso pulled one open.

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