Chapter 4: Oakley Avenue

I was still holding the frame when Damiano came to the study door.

"Where did you get this?" I said.

"I took it."

"From who?"

"From the opening. It was on a table by the door. I put it in my coat."

"You were at my opening?"

"Because I was there," he said, as if that answered anything.

"Damiano."

"I liked the paintings," he said. "I couldn't afford them."

"You can afford sixty million dollars."

"Not that week."

He took the frame from me and set it back on the desk, square to the edge.

"Dinner's at seven. Bruna cooks on Mondays, which is a threat, not an invitation."

"That's all I get?"

"For tonight," he said.

"Then I'll trade you," I said. "Danielle told me Rhett says I'll be a widow by spring."

I watched his face.

It didn't change, except for something cold that came and went behind his eyes.

"Rhett's welcome to try," he said. "He'll have to take a number."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. There's a list. He's not near the top."

"You promised to stay alive."

He looked down at me for a long moment.

"I remember," he said.

Dinner was at a long oak table in the kitchen, scarred with knife marks and wine rings.

Five of his men came, big quiet men in shirtsleeves who stood when I walked in and didn't sit until I did.

Bruna had made a pot of rigatoni with a sauce that had clearly been cooking since noon.

She set a plate in front of me and pointed her fork at her brother.

"He told you I can't cook."

"He said it was a threat."

"He's been eating my sauce since I was twelve. That's how threats work."

"Eat," Bruna told me. "You're too thin. Is she too thin?"

"She's perfect," Damiano said, without looking up from his plate.

The table went quiet.

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