“No idea.” Alistair rose to his feet. “I’ll have a friendly chat with him, see what comes out. Thanks for letting me know he’s here, Zola.”
Vescovi sat alone at a table, nursing a cocktail that sparkled and fizzed with magic. It was a quiet night, as expected. Alistair signaled to Teresa as he crossed to Vescovi.
“Mr. Vescovi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you took me up on my offer.”
Vescovi smiled thinly and shook Alistair’s hand. “I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
Teresa came up. “Can I get you something, Alistair?”
“An Old Fashioned, please. And Mr. Vescovi’s drinks are all on the house.”
When she left, Vescovi gestured to an empty chair. “Care to join me?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Alistair sat down.
“I heard Mr. Cunningham is working here now,” Vescovi remarked. “Is he in tonight?”
“He hit a bit of a rough patch, after his cousin’s death,” Alistair said. “And no, he’s taking the night off.”
Alistair hadn’t been entirely happy when Reinhold invited Sam to a cocktail party of “just us witches.” He was fairly certain neither Reinhold nor Joel would blab Alistair’s secrets, at least not on purpose. But if they got tipsy and let something slip…
The thought made Alistair break out in a cold sweat.
Vescovi leaned toward Alistair. A strand of brown hair tumbled across his brow. At one time, he’d kept his hair neat and trim, but as with so much else about him, it seemed permanently disheveled now. “I know Eldon supposedly died from a heart condition,” he said in a low voice, “but I heard a rumor he was murdered. Is that true?”
Teresa returned with Alistair’s Old Fashioned. He thanked her and took a sip before answering. “Yes.”
“Do you have any idea who did it?”
Here was the perfect opening. “Eldon owed money to Mr. Ursino.” Alistair kept his gaze locked on Vescovi’s face, and didn’t miss the slight flinch when he said Ursino’s name aloud.
“And he killed Eldon to make an example.”
Not quite but… “That’s what I think.”
“He wouldn’t have done it himself.” Vescovi’s lips twisted. “Ignatz doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“He did wrong by you.”
Vescovi laughed bitterly and tossed back his drink, before signaling for another one. “You don’t know the half of it. We had it all, you know? We were a team. Together forever.”
Now it was Alistair’s turn to flinch. He downed his own drink quickly, letting the burn of the alcohol distract him.
Vescovi didn’t seem to notice. “I never thought Ignatz would knife me in the back. When it looked like one of us was going to have to take the fall, I was glad to do it. A couple of years, tops, in the big house and then back to business. The day I felt our bond break, I thought he was dead. Worst night of my life. Then the next day, one of his bagmen shows up to tell me my services were no longer needed.”
Was Vescovi’s situation better or worse than his own? Ursino was alive, but had betrayed Vescovi in just about every way possible. Whereas Alistair had been the one to let down Forrest.
Teresa returned with their drinks. “Ursino’s a bastard,” Alistair said once she departed. “No two ways about it.” He glanced at Vescovi. “So why did you come back to Chicago after what he did?”
“I wasn’t about to let Ignatz decide where I could or couldn’t live.”
Alistair raised his glass. “Sheer stubbornness, then.”
“Something like that.” Vescovi’s gaze grew haunted. “What do you know about my replacement?”
“Nothing I say is going to make you feel better.”
“Maybe I don’t want to feel better.”
Alistair felt that in his bones. “Lena Olmo. She’s from Pittsburgh originally. Her family got in on the land speculation down in Florida, lived like kings, then went bust. Thanks to Ursino, she’s got plenty of cash again, and spends most of it either throwing wild parties or going to them.”
Vescovi leaned in. “But what is she like?”
“Couldn’t tell you. I don’t go to parties.”
“Right.” Vescovi sat back. “I remember you Gattis keep to yourselves. Except the other night at Club Grimalkin, anyway.”
Alistair shrugged. “My friends forced me to go.”
“Well, it was a good thing for me you did,” Vescovi said with a small smile. He lifted his glass to Alistair, then drained it. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“Come back any time.” Alistair watched him leave, then grabbed their glasses and took them back to the kitchen. He left them in the sink for later and headed into the office.
Wanda was on the telephone. “All right. Thanks for letting me know, Joel.”
Alistair frowned. Joel shouldn’t be at his store, where the telephone was. He ought to be having a pleasant evening with Reinhold and Sam. “What going on?” he asked as she hung up. “Is Sam all right?”
Wanda folded her arms over her breasts and glared at him. “No, I’d say he isn’t all right. He knows, Alistair. He knows everything.”
Sam’s hands shook as he folded a shirt. It took him three tries to do it neatly enough to be put in the open pack.
A hot, tight ball of anger and humiliation burned in his chest. He’d been such an idiot. Thought he’d actually, finally, had friends. People who enjoyed spending time with him.
He’d never had many friends back in Gatesville. Every time he tried, there was some new demand from his parents, or his siblings, some illness or task that resulted in canceled plans and interrupted conversations. People inevitably drifted away.
He’d thought maybe, here in Chicago, with no responsibilities except to keep himself alive, it might be different. That it was different.
Idiot. Stupid boy.
He pushed the thoughts away by focusing on the task at hand. The shirts were done, so he moved on to the trousers. Socks would be next.
The front door opened. “Sam?” Alistair called.
Sam didn’t answer. Alistair’s footsteps came down the hall—then he gasped. “I knew it,” Alistair said tightly. “I knew you’d…wait, are those my clothes? You’re not leaving—you’re throwing me out?”
“It’s my house,” Sam said, though it wasn’t strictly the case. At any rate, it was more his than Alistair’s. “I’m staying here, and tomorrow night I’m taking the hex to The Black Rabbit and settling this mess.” How, he didn’t know, but he’d figure it out.
Alistair shook his head. “You need help. You—”
“Stop.” Sam lowered the trousers in his hands, the acid knot in his chest poisoning his veins and making his hands shake. “I know why you’ve been staying here. Why you’ve been helping me. Well good news, you don’t need to do it any longer.”
Alistair stepped into Sam’s line of sight. His black brows drew down, his hair disarranged, and he still managed to look good, damn him. “Listen…I’m sorry you found out like this. Can we talk?”