Eighteen
“Buona sera,” Ferrero greeted. “Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride.”
The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I had half-expected Jawbreaker’s husband to be there. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.
The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.
“Good evening,” I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had re
