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The place is packed even though the sun has just set. The music is too loud. I can sense the beats on my skin. Elio's fingers tighten around my palm. I look away from the dance floor and the bar on the other side.
He scans the area, and his features harden. Something's wrong. However, I fail to spot anything.
He leads me up a set of stairs in the corner, two men are stationed at the foot of it, and from their rigid bodies, and hands clasped in front of them, it's evident they're armed.
A chill crawls down my spine and I have to remind myself, I've faced these kinds of people more than I can count. Sure, I was under the protection of the law, flanked by officers, but I'm the Cersei of the courtroom, the prosecutor every criminal dreads to have their case handled by.
I push my shoulders back as we climb up the stairs and I focus on my breathing. A single sign of weakness from my side can be disastrous.
We reach the top of the stairs. Ten armed men are standing in front of a door. Half of them nod to Elio as one of them opens the door for us.
Inside is dimly lit, a combination of black, red, and purple. Dangerous and alluring. An atmosphere fit for a gangster. One side of the room is entirely glass, giving the privilege of overlooking the dance floor, while the other side is covered with a maroon-red velvet curtain. A small fully decked bar is placed in the far back and in the middle of the ceiling a crystal chandelier glides down, its beads glint under the red and purple lights.
Enzo Esposito gets to his feet and when he turns to greet us, his face is exactly what one would expect a crime lord's to be. Black beady eyes, murder dancing in them, receding hairline, and a black designer's suit with the buttons of his jacket undone, showcasing a black west underneath it. His watch is huge enough to cover his thick wrist and he opens his arms as he walks around the sofa.
Even though the music is fainter here, it doesn't stop the man from literally shouting at top of his lungs, "Ciao amicu mio, come stai?"
If he wasn't smiling, I would've bet he's coming for a kill. They shake hands and he claps Elio's back hard enough if Elio wasn't so tense it would've sent him toppling.
Enzo leers at me from my head to toe. "La famosa procuratrice!"
I stare at him blankly, even though it's not hard to guess his words. The famous prosecutor.
To my horror, he moves to me and I lean away from him, but not far and fast enough to prevent him from greeting me full Italian style. He grabs my shoulders forcing me to stay put; his meaty fingers dig into my shoulder blades as he kisses both of my cheeks. Disgust churns my stomach and bile rises to the back of my throat.
As he pulls away, I'm half tempted to slap him. It's not a good idea though, with over a dozen men standing around the sofa this man was seated on.
