Boss? Skim? Sweet crispy crackers, that sounded very mobby.
Mr. Rastinelli’s expression remained steely. “Benny, Benny. If you would never go against me, why did Lefty and Little Tony tell me they saw you talking to Dominic Ardito?”
Benny took a step back, his eyes wild and searching, but Mr. Rastinelli was blocking the only exit, unless Benny went for the kitchen door. “I never talked to the man.”
Anger bent Mr. Rastinelli’s mouth. “You telling me my son lied to me?”
Little Tony made a fish face. “You know I would never lie to you, Pop.”
Mr. Rastinelli glared at him. “Shut up when I’m doing business already.” Then he turned to Benny. “Well?”
“No…I mean…” Panic curdled the other man’s voice. He shot a look at Little Tony, but that putz sure wasn’t going to help him. Benny tried Mr. Rastinelli again. “I’ll make it up to you. The money plus whatever else you want me to do.”
She bit her lip. She needed to leave. Whatever was going on, it was not her business.
Mr. Rastinelli shook his head slowly. “You stole my money. You lied to me.”
Little Tony scratched his neck. “Don’t forget he besmirched my name, Pop.”
Huh, how about that? Little Tony not only knew a big word, but had used it correctly.
Mr. Rastinelli cut his eyes at Little Tony. “You talk too much.” He lifted his gun in Benny’s direction. “I need people I can trust in my organization. You’re not one of those, Benny. Not anymore.”
He pulled the trigger.
The pop of the gun covered her gasp as she jerked back, almost dropping her phone. Holy mackerel, Mr. Rastinelli had just shot Benny! And she’d recorded it.
Swallowing hard, she backed up. Benny was moaning. So, not dead. Yet. But she might be if she didn’t get out of here before Mr. Rastinelli or Little Tony realized she’d seen the whole thing.
She grabbed her apron, reached for the back door and opened it as quietly and as carefully as she could. She had one foot outside when her cell phone chimed loudly with an incoming notification.
If she lived through this, she was deleting Facebook.
“Who’s there?” Anthony Rastinelli shouted.
She jerked the door wide and took off. She was a baker, not a runner, but adrenaline fueled her feet. She raced down the dark alley and took the first right she came to, then another alley, then another turn. She zigged and zagged, doing her best to lose the tail she undoubtedly had.
There were more bars and restaurants ahead, but Mr. Rastinelli was well known in the community, and if he was really mobbed up, which seemed a sure thing considering, what would stop those owners from turning her over to him? He’d probably reward them! She avoided the bars and ducked down a small side street.
It was pretty dark, but one of the businesses looked like it might still be open. The blinds on the front window were closed, but bright light shone through the slats. The word Eternamate was painted in neat script on the door. Whatever that meant. She grabbed the handle and pulled, praying someone was working late. Thankfully, it opened.
She ducked inside. It looked like a pretty typical office space, one front desk with several doors leading off to other offices. A little messy maybe, but she wasn’t about to judge the stacks of boxes and towers of paperwork on every cabinet. Especially when she was being chased by a murderer and his son. Odd there wasn’t a computer in sight. Whatever. She had bigger fish not to sleep with.
She leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths, her heart slowing but nowhere near normal. She stuck her phone in her jacket pocket.
“I’ll be right there,” a female voice called out with a slight French accent.
Delaney opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Too much shock still coursed through her system. She needed to call the police. Then what? She became a witness for the prosecution? If it was anything like TV, they’d change her name, give her a new identify and hide her away in some gross motel until the trial. Then she’d have to sit in front of Anthony Rastinelli and tell the judge and jury what she’d seen while he was right there in the same courtroom.
She wasn’t a coward, but…those witnesses in the movies seemed to end up dead about 99% of the time.
Germans eat twice as much chocolate as Americans. She rolled her eyes. Shut up, brain. Now is not the time for useless facts about chocolate. Everyone had their nervous tics, right?
An older, sophisticated woman with an armful of files walked out from one of the back rooms, exuding so much class that Delaney forgot everything that had just happened for a split second.
The woman smiled. “My apologies for the wait. We’re a little understaffed at the moment.”
Tall, with dark hair pulled into a twist, pin-straight bangs and narrow black-rimmed glasses, the woman wore a slim suit in midnight blue and a single strand of gunmetal pearls at her throat. A slick of burgundy lipstick, winged eyeliner and perfect brows completed the look. Those brows lifted slightly as she took Delaney in. “Ah. You’re not here about—never mind, you’re here for the secretarial position, aren’t you? Very good. I’m Adelaide Poirot, and you are?”
Not French, that was for dang sure. Delaney had never felt more like a slob in her entire life. Fortunately, the office phone rang before she had time to respond.
Adelaide rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but her smile thinned with frustration. “I’m afraid I must take that.” She set the files on the front desk. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”