Vittorio has just finished laughing at a joke Valentino made at the expenseof a paraplegic Muslim lawyer with one foot in the Chicago underworldwhen he turns to me. Bee is brooding on my opposite side, nursing a glassof fruit juice with obvious distaste.
“We must ensure Beatrice’s total protection now,” he intones suddenly,shifting the subject in whiplash fashion and sending a plume of prosecco-and prosciutto-laced breath in my face. He’s long past tipsy and well on hisway to drunk, but unfortunately for all of us, that only makes the mudaktalk louder. “Now that you’ve managed to plant a little Russian runt in mydaughter’s dried-up old womb, we must ensure it stays there.”
“I’m doing everything there is to —”
He slams his palm against my back.
