Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFFS
Friday arrived with the grim inevitability of a dental appointment.
Paige wore black work slacks, comfortable black shoes, and a plain black button-down shirt. She tied her dark hair into a severe knot and left her apartment in the gritty south end of the city.
It took 2 buses to reach the address.
The property was a sprawling estate on cliffs overlooking the ocean, separated from the highway by 10-foot iron gates and a thick perimeter of old-growth pine trees.
Paige approached a heavy steel call box and pressed the button.
“Name?”
The voice came through static.
“Paige. I’m supposed to be here.”
The gate clicked and swung inward on silent hinges.
She followed the winding driveway.
The house was massive, but it was not the gaudy collection of statues and fountains she had expected from mafia money. It was modern brutalist architecture constructed from concrete, glass, and dark wood.
It looked like a fortress disguised as an Architectural Digest feature.
Before she reached the front steps, the heavy oak door opened.
The guard from the restaurant stood there.
The one with the flattened nose.
“Arms up.”
Paige obeyed.
He patted her down with professional, impersonal efficiency, checking her waist and ankles.
“I’m Luca. Don’t talk to the guests. Don’t look at the cards on the table. You pour the drinks, clear the empty glasses, and serve the food. If you hear something you shouldn’t, pretend you didn’t understand. Clear glasses. Don’t listen.”
“Got it.”
Luca gave her a sideways look. The faintest hint of a smirk touched his scarred mouth.
“In here.”
He led her through a cavernous, sparsely furnished hallway and opened a pair of double doors.
Blue cigar smoke hazed the room.
A heavy oak table dominated the center beneath a low-hanging chandelier. 5 men sat around it, with black-and-gold chips stacked in uneven piles before them.
Roman sat at the head.
He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing faded ink and scars.
When Paige entered, he looked up.
His expression did not change.
He gave her a slight nod.
Paige moved to the wet bar in the corner. It contained bottles that cost more than her car.
Luca handed her a silver tray and a small, heavy crystal glass.
“Macallan 25. Neat. Bring it to Donovan.”
He indicated a heavyset, red-faced man sweating profusely on the left side of the table.
Paige poured the amber liquor, placed it on the tray, and approached.
She slipped into the space behind Donovan and lowered the tray.
“Your drink, sir.”
Donovan did not look at her.
He snatched the glass and struck its edge against the tray. Scotch spilled across his fingers.
“Watch it, sweetheart.”
“Apologies.”
Paige stepped back and wiped the tray.
Paige counted exits automatically as Luca led her through the house. She spotted a service hallway beyond the kitchen, a glass door opening onto a terrace, and cameras mounted discreetly at every turn. She texted Elena the address before Luca asked her to put her phone in a locker. He allowed the message to send. That small permission did not make her trust him, but it reminded her that fear and evidence were different things.
In the gaming room she saw more than cards. Donovan wore a signet ring with a chipped green stone, and each time Roman won a hand, Donovan touched it as though checking that it remained there. Another guest, a narrow-faced attorney called Mercer, kept his eyes on the door rather than his cards. Roman, meanwhile, appeared bored. Paige wondered whether the game was entertainment at all. When Donovan demanded another drink, she approached carefully, keeping the tray balanced in her left hand. Her injured right wrist hung close to her side. He reached for it anyway.
The house had a peculiar quiet, different from the reverent hush that followed Roman through the restaurant. Staff members greeted one another by name. In the kitchen, a woman named Mrs. Bell checked Paige's wrist and warned her not to carry the heavy silver service. Paige wondered how a place could be both considerate and frightening. She accepted a lighter tray and thanked the housekeeper, then made herself memorize the path back to the front door.
May you like
The men at the table barely acknowledged her until Donovan demanded his drink. Roman's attention seemed fixed on the cards, but Paige saw him glance toward the bar when she shifted the tray to protect her wrist. He had noticed. Whether that meant he would help her was another question entirely.
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