As I stood in the presence of some of the most powerful people in the city and beyond, my gaze was glued to the brown-haired beauty. My mouth dried as I saw not only her delicate cheekbones, her upturned nose, and her luscious full lips, but also as I took in her poise, posture, and presence. She reminded me of a Disney princess in childhood cartoons. The surroundings should blur as only Cecilia remained in focus.
Although the moment seemed to last an eternity, only milliseconds had passed. My attention skirted over her parents, Barron Abernathy, the CFO of Dellinger Hotels, and her mother, Elizabeth Dellinger Abernathy. Dante Dellinger, the heir apparent, was also present. As Lorenzo’s only son, he was already up to his neck in the family business. The woman beside him wasn’t his wife. Dante had made the tabloids too. Two failed marriages and no children. Finally, my gaze landed on the man at the head of the table, Lorenzo Dellinger himself.
The large man who was now my escort or my executioner was leaning near Mr. Dellinger’s ear, undoubtedly explaining my presence. The whispers and conversation resumed as if it was nothing unusual for a man with a reputation for fulfilling any assignment was among them.
Maybe it wasn’t.
I hadn’t been born to the life. I had this life in my blood, but it wasn’t how I was raised. I’d been hidden from my powerful father for my safety. The people in this room understood the life they lived, understood it innately. It was as natural as a Sunday stroll along the New Jersey boardwalk, except I doubted any of these people willingly spent time in New Jersey.
Lorenzo Dellinger appeared exactly as I imagined. He lived his life in full view of the world, taking interviews with 60 Minutes and appearing on social media. He had a boisterous and gregarious personality that sought out the limelight as a means of sustenance, such as a plant needed sunlight. The days of the Mafia operating in the shadows cast during the late twentieth century were gone. Men like Lorenzo lived in the spotlight, claiming legality and illegal prosecution. He dared the Southern District of New York to stop his enterprises and laughed in the face of search warrants.
Lorenzo dabbed his lips with a cloth napkin from his lap and stood.
“Mr. Lorenzo, I’m Greyson Ingalls.”
In only seconds he scanned me from head to toe. “Go on with your dinner,” he announced to the room as he stood and tossed the napkin onto his chair. “This is business; it won’t take long.”
Lorenzo was taller than I’d imagined, equal to my height. My youth and exercise routines made me fitter, but Dellinger had a presence that superseded physical appearance. I was certain that in his day, he’d taken care of business personally. That was long ago. He kept his hands clean and his books above reproach. The other men at the table as well as the big man and another who stood near the windows were enough to keep him well protected.
Lorenzo’s large hand landed on my shoulder. That common move meant one thing: he was proclaiming the he was above me, higher in hierarchy. It was the human equivalent to declaring pecking order in animals. Given the luxurious surroundings and the beautifully dressed mixed company, I was glad that mankind had moved beyond peeing.
“Come with me, Ingalls.”
“Yes, sir.”
The large man who’d been near the windows moved in front of us as he opened a door. As Lorenzo gestured for me to move forward, I had a sliver of a misgiving. It was the one memory of Cecilia that gave me courage. Surely, even Lorenzo Dellinger wouldn’t kill a man in the room adjoining his family’s meal.
Comparatively, the room we entered was small and empty. I reasoned it was an additional space to the other room if the walls were removed. The big man closed the door, leaving the two of us alone.
Dellinger’s hands went to the pockets of his pants as he nodded. “You come with an interesting résumé.”
I waited.
My limited experience on the other side of this conversation told me to stay quiet. The pauses were a tactic, one to make weaker men cave.
“What do you want, Ingalls?”
“There isn’t much I need, Mr. Dellinger. I also have little to lose. Those qualities make me a valuable asset.”
“Family?”
I wouldn’t be where I was if he hadn’t done his research. Nevertheless, a question from the top boss required a response. “My brother is deceased.”
“I don’t need problems from New Orleans.”
“There won’t be. My only responsibility where that city is concerned is to stay away.”
“Wife, girlfriend, partner?”
There had been. She’d paid for our mistakes with her life. “No, sir.”
“Parents?”
“We haven’t been in contact for over five years. They haven’t even been informed about my brother. To them, we’re both dead.”
“So I could kill you right now and no one would miss you.”
“Or I could kill you and my death would be insignificant, but yours, yours would have worldwide repercussions.”
Dellinger smiled. “Your voice never wavered. You’re perspiration free. As my father would have said, cool as a cucumber in the oven.” His gaze narrowed. “You still didn’t answer my question. What do you want?”
“I want my death to matter. When it happens, I want the world to feel it, a kingdom that needs my strength, protection, or simply attention. In a nutshell, sir, I want it all.”
“You won’t get that here. And if I saw you as a threat, I would kill you today.”
“As you should,” I said and shook my head. “I’m not after your kingdom. New York is massive. I’m willing to start smaller, but I can’t do that, can’t make myself known in this world without friends.”
“Do I look friendly?” he asked.
For the first time, my lips curled upward. “You actually do, Mr. Dellinger. And deadly. It’s a lethal combination, and one I’d not only like to acquire, but one I would be honored to call my associate.”
“What do you want from me, from Dellinger?”
“Simply the knowledge that the target I wear isn’t in your sights.”
“And if I call on you?”
“I will answer.”
Cecilia
Present time
I refused to show weakness.
All my life, my mother had warned me to be careful, to be aware of my surroundings, and to trust my instincts. She claimed we all had a sixth sense; we simply needed to learn to heed its counsel. It was the little voice that spoke to us when we parked our car too far from the restaurant and the one that cautioned about the darkened parking lot or the broken streetlight. It whispered in our ears, setting our senses on high, as we came to a point of decision, urging right instead of left.
At a young age, while other parents told stories with bunnies and rainbows, my mother explained the life in which I was born. She explained without the gory details that her father, my grandfather, had taken what he believed to be his. It was similar to the biblical story of Cain and Abel, two brothers fighting for their father’s blessing. In my mother’s story, the father wasn’t spiritual but a hard and dangerous man. Instead of encouraging both of his sons or taking the accepted route of leaving his realm to the oldest, my great-grandfather left it up to his sons to determine the best, the strongest, the one who would one day take over the fortune he’d built.