as Lorenzo stood, walked to the door, gave me one final glance, then walked out, closing the door behind him.
I could hear him talking to someone through the door, making my stomach twist.
I could trust Lorenzo. He was proving that more and more by the moment. And if I could trust Lorenzo, I could trust Emilio and Chris. But Arturo? Arturo's men? Definitely not.
"It's me," a voice called through the door.
"Who?" I called back, trying to keep my voice low.
"Chris," he answered.
"Maybe I would know that if you ever spoke to me," I shot back, hearing a small chuckle in response.
"Hang tight," he told me, voice barely above a whisper. He must have been talking to me between the crack in the door, paranoid we might be overheard. "We got this."
I wanted to believe them. I wanted to trust that their confidence wasn't misplaced, that they could somehow spin this conversation into something positive.
But I had finally met Arturo Costa.
And he didn't seem like the kind of man who let people get things over on him.
For the supposed "boss of all bosses," he was a surprisingly small man. In both stature and nature. He clearly got off on my father's ass-kissing. He loathed it when I didn't cower before him. Then there was that oddly weak, higher-pitched voice.
I guess movies and TV—and, let's face it, Lorenzo—had skewed my perception of what mafia men were supposed to look like and act like.
It seemed like Arturo understood this preconception, too. I guess it was why he was so ruthless. Because he knew it was the only way a man like him could command respect.
Except it wasn't respect at all.
It was fear.
And being made to feel fearful made people angry; it didn't inspire loyalty.
So maybe Lorenzo and Chris were right. Maybe they could work this out, after all.
I couldn't let myself get too hopeful, though.
My gaze shifted around the cold, empty side of the basement.
This was not the place for hope.
This was where it went to die.
A shudder moved through me as I wondered how many men had lost their lives right where I was sitting, how much blood had been bleached from the floors, how many people had begged for their lives while being chained to a wall.
I wasn't naive enough to believe everyone made it out of this place alive. I wasn't even naive enough to be sure I would.
At this point, though, I was more worried about the things that could happen before death than the act of dying itself.
If Arturo was a small and weak man who used fear as a motivator, if he employed rapists and child molesters, if he didn't have the respect of his own damn son, who knew what could happen to me down here.
And Christopher would be powerless to stop it.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, resting my head back against the wall, suddenly wishing I had put on pants and a normal shirt for this event.
At the time, I thought the dress and heels would make me feel more sure of myself, that they would work as some sort of shield between me and the men I would be faced with. I figured I would be going back to Lorenzo's penthouse after the meeting.
Now, I was just cold. And exposed.
Upstairs, I could hear the muffle of male voices, the movement of feet, the slamming and shuffling and dragging that must have been my father's body being moved.
I probably should have felt some remorse then.
For what I had done.
I wasn't a killer.
I had a gun out of fear, because I lived alone, because my father had been connected to the mob, because I had been weak and defenseless once, and I didn't ever want to feel that way again.
And, yes, I had taken that gun to a range and learned how to use it, finding something cathartic in doing so, something I needed in my stressful little life.
But I hadn't ever shot a living target before.
I was sure I never would.
Or that I would at least hesitate to do so, to possibly take someone's life.
And I damn sure figured I would feel regret or pain or sickness over doing just that.
Yet here I was. Just twenty or so moments after shooting my own father dead one floor above, and I felt none of those things.
I felt vindicated.
I felt justified.
I felt stronger.
Stronger.
Yes, that was the feeling.
I'd been beat down so much in my life, by people, by circumstance. I don't know if I