Finally, I hear a low whistle and then footsteps trailing away from the car. The driver?
I scour the inside of the trunk until I find a release that opens it. Cautiously, I lift the lid, blinking as my eyes adjust to a dim source of light coming from above. From what I can tell, I’m in a garage. Rows of luxurious vehicles are parked beside this one. Through a row of windows, I can make out what seems to be an office where several men mill about.
My heart races as I rise to my knees. Slowly, I slip one foot from the trunk, bracing it against the pavement before I leave the vehicle entirely. Straining to keep out of view, I lower the lid as much as I can without slamming it closed.
Low to the ground, I inch my way forward, scanning the area for any hint of an exit. But there are too many, and a parade of vehicles streams in and out. I don’t see Donatello anywhere. With no other options, I stand and approach the office, tugging the remainder of my hair loose. The knife, I tuck within my bra between my breasts, praying that the fall of the material obscures its shape.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” a man demands, calling from the doorway. I flinch as he takes one look at me. Whatever he sees makes him clear his throat, and some of the suspicion in his gaze softens. “Are you lost?”
Relieved, I nod, and he inclines his head toward a silver elevator on the other end of the garage. Above it is a sign reading: To the Grande Hotel Lobby. That explains the suit he wears—a crisp, black ensemble nearly identical to the style worn by the other men in the room. It must be a uniform for the drivers hired by the hotel.
“Guest services are that way,” he says.
I take a step in that direction, only to turn to him and start to sign. It’s random nonsense, but he doesn’t know that, flushing pink with confusion.
“I’m sorry,” he admits with a pained grimace. “I don’t understand sign language.”
I mime for a pen and paper, and he ushers me into the office and hands me both. Crouched over a desk, I embody every bit of what I learned about being rich from my classmates. There is a dichotomy to it one must learn to master. It isn’t enough to be rude; you have to be delicate as well. There’s an art to knowing how to simper and smile with an air of superiority. When to sneer and when to bat your lashes.
In short, you perform no differently than when playing an instrument.
I lost my card key, I write. My uncle is staying at the hotel, and we got separated. Can you tell me what room we’re in, please?
“You haven’t tried the front desk?” He eyes me warily and sighs when I shake my head. “Name?”
My hand trembles so badly I can barely form the letters. In the end, I press down hard enough that the nib of the pen tears through the page.
Reading the name, the man raises an eyebrow. “Donatello Vanici?”
“I drove him tonight,” another man pitches in from across the room. Seated at a desk with his feet propped on the edge, he eyes me with a raised eyebrow and shrugs. “He hired full service, and there’s a package I was supposed to deliver for him tonight. I could take her up.”
I don’t mind. Thank you, I scribble.
With a grunt of acknowledgment, the man rises to his feet. “Wait here, Miss.”
He leaves the office to enter the garage, and sweat drips down the back of my neck as I wait.
Eventually, he returns with a questioning frown and an unwrapped gift box tucked beneath his arm. “Damn kids,” he grumbles, tugging at the gray tie accenting his black suit. “Someone went through the trunk.”
“I’ll check the cameras while you write a report,” the man near the door grumbles. “Just make sure nothing’s stolen. That’s the last thing we fucking need around here.”
“Quit your bitching,” the man with the gift snarls. “Let me take her up first.” He jerks his head for me to follow, and I nearly trip in my haste to keep pace.
Together, we enter the elevator, and the man swipes a badge before selecting a floor just a few numbers down from the highest level. Within minutes, the doors open onto a lush hallway accented by blood-red carpet and wood-paneled walls polished to shine.
The driver shuffles forward to a room a few paces down and swipes the card to let me inside.
“Your uncle, huh?” he wonders, inspecting me with a curious expression. “Look, if either of you needs a ride in the future, here is my private card. I’m looking to trade up, if you know what I mean. The pay here is shit.” He rummages through his coat and withdraws a plain business card. “If the ride is for you, text this number. You know how to text?”
He grunts when I nod.
“Good. Text this number with your name and where to pick you up, no questions asked. And don’t forget to tell your uncle, if he’s hiring. Oh, and tell him happy birthday for me.” He hands me the present and leaves.
I can’t seem to move other than to slip his card where I hid my knife. Or turn away from the surprisingly modest space. My first coherent thought is that the air doesn’t smell like him, too crisp and clean.
Apparently, I wasn’t the first to find a way in here, either. A cake rests on the king-sized bed, along with small, square items wrapped in shiny silver packaging.
It’s so anticlimactic in a sense.
He should be sprawled in a massive penthouse, reveling in his money, unbothered by any skeletons in his past.
But this arena is as fitting as any to finally face him
