Wrong Place, Wrong Man

Chapter 6 - The Exception

LORENZO
Complications bored me.
Most of them were caused by incompetence, and incompetence was one of the few things I had very little patience for.
I was halfway through a conversation I had already lost interest in when my phone vibrated against the desk.
Once.
Marco.
I let it ring.
Across from me, Russo continued explaining why a shipment scheduled for Thursday had somehow become a shipment scheduled for Friday, using considerably more words than the situation required.
I leaned back in my chair and watched him talk.
He was nervous.
People always talked too much when they were nervous.
They filled silence because silence made them uncomfortable.
I preferred silence.
It encouraged honesty.
My phone stopped vibrating.
Then started again.
I looked at it.
Marco didn’t call twice.
I lifted one finger.
Russo stopped speaking immediately.
I picked up the phone.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Of course we did.
“What kind?”
There was a pause.
The kind I didn’t like.
“He ran.”
I looked toward the windows.
Beyond the glass, the marina stretched into darkness, the water broken by scattered reflections from the city.
“And?”
“We handled it.”
“Then you don’t have a problem.”
Another pause.
My fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair.
“Lorenzo.”
That got my attention.
Marco rarely used my first name when he was working.
“What?”
“There was a witness.”
My hand stilled.
Behind Russo, one of my men glanced toward me.
“How much did they see?”
“Enough.”
I said nothing.
Marco continued.
“She came around the corner before we could stop him. He spoke to her. She saw him go down.”
She.
“Did she see the shooter?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is she alone?”
“Looks like it.”
“Phone?”
“Has one.”
“Anyone with her?”
“No.”
I looked down at the papers spread across my desk.
One careless man.
One badly chosen escape route.
One civilian walking through exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.
A complication.
Nothing more.
“Bring her.”
Marco was silent for half a second.
“Here?”
I looked at the phone.
“Did I stutter?”
“No.”
The line went dead.
I placed the phone back on the desk.
Russo was watching me carefully.
“Continue.”
He blinked. “Boss?”
“You were explaining why apparently calendars are difficult.”
He swallowed.
Then continued.
I listened.
Or pretended to.
The witness should have been simple.
Bring her in.
Find out what she saw.
Find out who knew where she was.
Make a decision.
There was nothing unusual about it.
Nothing requiring more than five minutes of my attention.
At least, there shouldn’t have been.
Twenty-three minutes later, Marco sent a message.
We’re here.
I didn’t answer.
I finished the conversation first.
There were rules to power that most men never understood.
One of them was simple.
Never hurry toward a problem.
Make the problem come to you.
By the time the doors to my office opened, I was sitting behind my desk with a drink in my hand, listening to Luca finish going over figures.
I heard heels first.
Sharp little clicks against the floor outside.
Then silence.
Then the door opened wider.
I didn’t look immediately.
Marco entered.
Someone else followed him.
Female.
I could tell from the heels without turning my head.
I finished listening to Luca.
Then he stopped speaking.
The room went quiet.
I lifted my eyes.
Marco stood several feet inside the door.
There was a red mark along his jaw.
Interesting.
My gaze moved past him.
And stopped.
Blonde.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Long, pale hair falling over an ivory blouse.
Black skirt.
Heels.
Small handbag held against her body.
Office clothes.
Expensive enough to suggest a decent salary, not expensive enough to suggest family money.
She looked completely out of place surrounded by armed men.
And yet she wasn’t crying.
That was the second thing I noticed.
She was frightened.
Terrified, actually.
I could see it in the way she held her bag, the tension through her shoulders, the shallow movement of her chest.
But she was watching everything.
Doors.
Windows.
Men.
Distance.
Me.
Especially me.
Not helpless, then.
My eyes returned to Marco.
“Problem?”
“Boss, she saw everything.”
I looked at her again.
Twenty-four, perhaps.
Twenty-five at most.
Pretty.
No.
Pretty wasn’t quite right.
Pretty was soft.
She wasn’t.
There was something sharper beneath the polished clothes and blonde hair.
“Everything?”
“Enough.”
I set my glass down.
“Then why is she still breathing?”
Her face changed.
Barely.
A small loss of colour.
A tightening of the fingers around her handbag.
Fear.
Good.
At least she understood where she was.
Marco explained why they hadn’t handled her at the marina.
I listened while watching her.
She watched me back.
Most people couldn’t do that for long.
She could.
“Come here.”
She didn’t move.
My gaze sharpened slightly.
Behind her, someone shifted.
I ignored him.
“I said come here.”
This time she walked.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her heels struck the floor with every step until she stopped several feet away.
Too far.
“Closer.”
Nothing.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“Do you always have trouble following simple instructions?”
Her chin lifted.
“Only when they’re given by men who ask why I’m still breathing.”
Interesting.
I leaned back.
So Marco’s jaw hadn’t been an accident.
“What’s your name?”
“Bonnie.”
Bonnie.
It suited her less than it should have.
Too sweet.
“Bonnie what?”
“Powell.”
I asked her age.
Twenty-four.
Work.
Corporate events and brand partnerships.
My gaze travelled over her again.
The clothes made sense now.
So did the heels.
One of them had blood along the edge.
She followed my gaze and looked down.
For the first time, something cracked.
Only for a second.
Her face tightened.
The body.
She was remembering it.
Then she looked at me again and the wall came straight back up.
“Do you have a problem with my outfit?”
I nearly laughed.
She was standing in a room full of armed men after witnessing an execution, and apparently my opinion of her skirt had become an immediate concern.
“No.”
I let my eyes move over her deliberately this time.
Her waist.
The fitted black skirt.
The slit exposing part of one thigh.
Then back to her face.
“Not at all.”
There.
A faint flush beneath her skin.
She noticed the way I’d looked at her.
More interestingly, she cared.
I reached for my drink.
“Were you expected home?”
“Yes.”
Lie.
It came too quickly.
“By whom?”
Silence.
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Husband?”
“No.”
I shouldn’t have registered either answer.
I did.
“Family?”
A hesitation.
Then another no.
“Then nobody is waiting.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Her jaw tightened.
She disliked being read.
Useful.
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
I stared at her.
She added, perfectly seriously, “I have terrible eyesight.”
Behind her, Marco made a noise.
I looked at him.
He stopped.
When I returned my attention to her, she was watching the exchange.
Cataloguing that too.
Clever girl.
“You watched a man get shot.”
“I saw a man fall over.”
“Twice?”
“Very unfortunate balance.”
There it was.
The corner of my mouth betrayed me before I could stop it.
Not because the joke was particularly funny.
Because nobody spoke to me like this.
Certainly nobody standing in her position.
I continued questioning her.
No.
No.
No.
Every answer carefully useless.
Then I asked whether she’d seen the shooter.
She hesitated.
Tiny.
But enough.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
“About your answer?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“About whether you’re always this irritating.”
Silence swallowed the room.
I stared at her.
She realised immediately what she’d said.
I saw it.
That brief flash behind her eyes.
Fuck.