I’m watching as Dante thumps his fist against the cigar room door. It flies open and reveals Alberto’s looming silhouette. They have a short, heated discussion before Dante turns around and pins me with a blistering stare. I freeze, my drink halfway to my lips, and when he makes a beeline for me, my palms start sweating. This is not good. “It’s you,” he growls, coming to a stop just inches away from where I’m sitting. “He wants to speak with you.” My heart skips a beat. “Me?” I croak.
