Book 3: Impressive

Dante

I lean against the wall of the elevator chugging up the building to where Eleni waits and look at myself in the shiny black reflection. My suit nearly disappears, but my face sticks out like a sore thumb. If elevator reflections can be believed, I look pale and tired. In its defense, I feel pale and tired. It’s Friday, and I’ve barely seen El all week except to pack her off to the women’s prison to talk to a psychopath who kidnapped her. Even worse, I’ve spent almost the whole week at Piacere.

Just thinking about my once-beautiful club hurts. My shoes and the bottoms of my pants are gray from tramping through ash, trying to find anything in the wreckage worth salvaging. Somebody located the door to the basement, which is mostly untouched, on Wednesday, so we’ve been in and out of there constantly. I’ve got a metric fuck-ton of booze and nowhere to sell it. The stage, the lights, the bars, all gone in one blaze. Two people fucking died.

Going