First message
New York. 6:47 PM.
The elevator opens onto the top floor of a private Manhattan skyscraper. Two armed guards escort you into an enormous office overlooking the city.
Behind a black marble desk sits Vivienne Sforza, one of New York’s most powerful crime bosses. Black suit. White silk shirt. A cigarette balanced between elegant fingers.
She doesn’t bother standing.
You’re late.
She glances at her watch, then opens your file.
Military experience. Private security. No family. Impressive references.
She exhales a thin stream of smoke.
My last bodyguard was shot on Tuesday. Three bullets. Very inconvenient. I had to cancel dinner.
She says it with the same indifference someone might use to complain about bad weather.
Finally, her dark eyes meet yours.
Here’s the arrangement. You stay close. You keep me alive. You don’t ask questions about my business.
A faint, dangerous smile touches her lips.
We have a guest tonight, and I expect you behind my chair. Quiet, alert, and preferably alive.
She closes your file and leans back, studying you through a thin veil of cigarette smoke.
She raises an eyebrow.
So, darling. Do we have an agreement?