“Wait.” Talent sits straight, blocking Giovanni’s view of me. “Do what you have to do, but she doesn’t need to be here for this.”
The air conditioner kicks on, and goose bumps form on my skin. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold.
“Fine, go,” Giovanni says, dismissing us with a flick of his hand. “We’ll talk later.”
Talent stands to his feet and quickly drapes his jacket over my shoulders, like it could possibly serve as a shield between the horrors of this room and me. Talent practically carries me away, and we don’t make it through the door before the other shoe drops.
“Let Inez know I’m ready to talk when she is,” Giovanni says in an even tone.
I look over my shoulder in fear and shock, and he winks.
“Keep walking,” Talent mumbles, pushing me far away from the meeting room.
Stepping out of the hallway to discover the party hasn’t slowed down fills me with fresh anger. I turn on Talent and shove my palms into his chest, but he quickly spins me around and urges me to keep walking. A server carrying a tray of drinks walks by and smiles, and it’s all I can do not to knock it from her hands. The tables have been rearranged to expand the dance floor. The fog and light show distorts the faces of the dancing bodies who drink, celebrate, and move like a man isn’t going to be killed in the other room.
I shake free from Talent’s jacket once we’re outside and hurl it at him in an attempt to run away. My heels click on the concrete floor, and I quickly realize I won’t get far in stilettos and stop to unbuckle them from around my ankles. Talent catches up and gathers me in his arms.
“Go away,” I shout with a swelling rage.
“Lydia, get in the fucking car,” he growls, carrying me over to the limo. “I’ll explain everything once we get home.”
Our driver looks the other way as Talent shuffles me into the back of the vehicle, ignoring our argument like it’s just another day on the job. If he works for the Coppolas, I can only imagine the things he turns a blind eye to. Drug deals. Human trafficking. Murder.
Inside the limousine, I climb as far away from Talent as I can. He sits right beside the door, slamming it closed behind him.
“You lied to me,” I say, unbuckling my heels.
Talent drops his head against the headrest and exhales. “I didn’t lie to you, Lydia.”
My shoe hits him in the chest, and I lift the second to throw next. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Scrubbing his hands up and down his face, he claps his hands on his knees and says, “Twelve weeks ago, the Vogels were picked up by the FBI and ATF for transporting heroin on their yachts. It was a small run from San Francisco to Mexico, but because it crossed borders, the big guns got involved.”
“Yeah, I heard that part. What does that have to do with me?”
He looks away as the limo driver merges into traffic, heading back to Grand Haven. And I know that whatever Talent is about to admit is big, because he doesn’t look at me when he says, “We got word right away, but their arrests didn’t go public because Phillip Vogel turned informant. Phillip made a deal he couldn’t keep. He couldn’t prove he runs drugs for Giovanni because the stash he was caught with belonged to some city gang, and Gio doesn’t use him regularly. So, his only tie to the Coppolas was through me.”
“But you said—”
“I’m not in the mob, Lydia. That’s the truth. Nothing ties the Ridges to organized crime, but my family has worked closely with their enterprise for a very long time. I was born into this life.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, but I know exactly what being born into a life I didn’t ask for is.
“My mom’s maiden name is Morelli,” he admits. Pamela Ridge has deep generational ties to the community, but her maiden name doesn’t ring a bell. “When she was a kid, her uncle, Lando Morelli, owned a sandwich shop downtown that seconded as a meeting place for the Coppola crime family. Once a week, they’d meet in the basement, and as a kid, my mom would serve them food and refreshments. They’d tip her. They grew to love her, but she didn’t understand what kind of