Fearless: Mob Boss Book Two (Volume 2) by Michelle St. James Page B
Authors: Michelle St. James
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her father liked to drink; there was a set of barware, enough liquor to host a party, several crystal drinking glasses, and a box of cigars. She closed the cupboard doors and started with the drawers on either side.
Empty except for a stack of clean white shirts in one of them.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the time and guessed that she had about fifteen more minutes before Frank came to check on her. The realization got her moving, and she hurried across the room to the desk, a streamlined design of right angles and light wood anchored with slim white panels.
The surface of the desk was virtually clean. There was a leather blotter, a metal cup full of pens and pencils, a picture of her mother. Had someone cleaned it, or had her father always been this neat? And what had happened to his computer? Would asking about it make Frank suspicious?
She opened the top drawer of the desk and was disappointed to find it empty. A quick check of two more drawers revealed only a few pieces of company letterhead, an old pair of eyeglasses (she hadn’t known her father wore glasses), and a dop kit with a razor, shaving cream, and saline solution. She had already resigned herself to coming up empty when she opened the last drawer.
Her nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of cigarettes. She reached into the back of the drawer and closed her hand around something cold and flat. When she pulled it out she saw that it was an ashtray, loaded with cigarette butts. She knew immediately that they belonged to Frank—the cigarettes he smoked gave off a uniquely unpleasant odor—but she lifted the glass dish to her nose anyway.
A million memories came rushing back; Uncle Frank lifting her into the air on her fifth birthday, putting her on his shoulders so she could see during the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, teasing her with gifts by switching hands behind his back.
She leaned back in the chair. It didn’t mean anything. Frank Morra had known her father most of their lives. He’d probably just come in here to think about his dead friend, to think about the business.
But something nagged at her. Frank had made it sound like the office was waiting for the next Chairman of Rossi Development while making it seem like he wasn’t interested in the job. Was it an act? Did he sit in her father’s office, dreaming about taking over?
The truth is, she didn’t really care. It was more about the deceit. About the part Frank played, the one where he was the grieving best friend of Carlo Rossi, determined to see to his legacy, not interested in building one of his own. If he was lying, it meant that he was more ambitious—and maybe more intelligent—than Nico gave him credit for.
She set the ashtray on top of the desk and felt around the back of the drawer. She didn’t expect to find anything else. The cigarettes weren’t exactly incriminating. But then her fingers brushed against something thin and dry at the back of the drawer. She pulled it out, and realized she was looking at a folded piece of paper. When she smoothed it out, she saw that it was a sheet of company letterhead, STRAND SOUTH BAY, written in neat block letters across its surface.
“Strand,” she murmured.
She glanced quickly at her phone and thought about Nico at the cafe across the street. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d make good on his promise to come in after her, and it been almost an hour since she’d left him on the sidewalk outside. She needed to get moving,
She folded the piece of paper and returned it to the drawer where she found it. If it did belong to Frank, she didn’t want him to know she’d found it. Then she put the ash tray back and closed the drawer. She was preparing to leave the room when the door opened.
Frank entered the room, all smiles. Was it her imagination that he seemed nervous?
“How are you doing in here?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t bother with the grief-stricken daughter act.
Empty except for a stack of clean white shirts in one of them.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the time and guessed that she had about fifteen more minutes before Frank came to check on her. The realization got her moving, and she hurried across the room to the desk, a streamlined design of right angles and light wood anchored with slim white panels.
The surface of the desk was virtually clean. There was a leather blotter, a metal cup full of pens and pencils, a picture of her mother. Had someone cleaned it, or had her father always been this neat? And what had happened to his computer? Would asking about it make Frank suspicious?
She opened the top drawer of the desk and was disappointed to find it empty. A quick check of two more drawers revealed only a few pieces of company letterhead, an old pair of eyeglasses (she hadn’t known her father wore glasses), and a dop kit with a razor, shaving cream, and saline solution. She had already resigned herself to coming up empty when she opened the last drawer.
Her nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of cigarettes. She reached into the back of the drawer and closed her hand around something cold and flat. When she pulled it out she saw that it was an ashtray, loaded with cigarette butts. She knew immediately that they belonged to Frank—the cigarettes he smoked gave off a uniquely unpleasant odor—but she lifted the glass dish to her nose anyway.
A million memories came rushing back; Uncle Frank lifting her into the air on her fifth birthday, putting her on his shoulders so she could see during the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, teasing her with gifts by switching hands behind his back.
She leaned back in the chair. It didn’t mean anything. Frank Morra had known her father most of their lives. He’d probably just come in here to think about his dead friend, to think about the business.
But something nagged at her. Frank had made it sound like the office was waiting for the next Chairman of Rossi Development while making it seem like he wasn’t interested in the job. Was it an act? Did he sit in her father’s office, dreaming about taking over?
The truth is, she didn’t really care. It was more about the deceit. About the part Frank played, the one where he was the grieving best friend of Carlo Rossi, determined to see to his legacy, not interested in building one of his own. If he was lying, it meant that he was more ambitious—and maybe more intelligent—than Nico gave him credit for.
She set the ashtray on top of the desk and felt around the back of the drawer. She didn’t expect to find anything else. The cigarettes weren’t exactly incriminating. But then her fingers brushed against something thin and dry at the back of the drawer. She pulled it out, and realized she was looking at a folded piece of paper. When she smoothed it out, she saw that it was a sheet of company letterhead, STRAND SOUTH BAY, written in neat block letters across its surface.
“Strand,” she murmured.
She glanced quickly at her phone and thought about Nico at the cafe across the street. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d make good on his promise to come in after her, and it been almost an hour since she’d left him on the sidewalk outside. She needed to get moving,
She folded the piece of paper and returned it to the drawer where she found it. If it did belong to Frank, she didn’t want him to know she’d found it. Then she put the ash tray back and closed the drawer. She was preparing to leave the room when the door opened.
Frank entered the room, all smiles. Was it her imagination that he seemed nervous?
“How are you doing in here?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t bother with the grief-stricken daughter act.
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