“Good.” He turned and ambled for the door with all the confidence of a man who’d obtained exactly what he’d come for. “I’ll pick you up here at 7:30.”

“Wait!” She scurried around the coffee table.

Kir paused just as he opened the door and looked back at her.

“I don’t know what to wear. What kind of event it is, or what to expect.”

His mouth quirked and the gentleness that had ridden his expressions until their conversation had taken a darker path returned. His gaze slid down the length of her then lifted back to her face. “Just be yourself, Cassie.” He dipped his head in farewell and resumed his exit, but added one last quip before he pulled the door shut. “But do prepare to be surprised.”

Chapter Seven

Cassie sat at her newsroom desk, headphones on and eyes glued to her monitor while an unedited interview she’d done months ago streamed by like white noise.

What did a girl wear to a mobster’s house? A suit? A dress? Something more casual? If she’d been smart, she’d have pushed Kir for an answer to her question last night, but it’d taken a good ten seconds after he closed the door behind him before her brain had fully reengaged.

Texting was an option, of course, but stubbornness and pride had waylaid her more times than she could count.

Now, if she had a new lead to share—some viable excuse to text him that might open up a chance for her to ask a clarifying question or two, that would be different.

Except you’re not going to find any clues if you don’t actually listen to your interviews.

Huffing loud enough to make Lizbet glance at Cassie from her own desk, Cassie backed up the interview to the last time her mind had wandered off and tried again.

It was a candid conversation. One where she’d cornered one of Alfonsi’s bodyguards coming out of a pub only three days after his boss’s disappearance.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Alfonsi?” Cassie said.

The man shrugged. While none of the men photographed with Alfonsi over the years looked anywhere near as polished as Kir, Roman or the men that spent time with them, this particular man had already ditched his chinos and plain white Oxford for slouchy jeans and a ragged gray T-shirt. “About a year. Maybe a little more than that.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

The question seemed to take him aback for all of a second, then he scanned up and down the street. “No more than anyone else.”

An evasive answer. One that bugged her now just as much as it did then.

“But you spent a considerable amount of time with him. Surely you have some idea of places he frequented. Have you offered any clues to authorities?”

“I talked to ’em, yeah.”

“Can you share that information with me?”

He frowned and planted his hands on his hips. “I saw him Tuesday morning, November 13 when I got to work. Then he left with his son and one of his captains a little while later. Never saw him again.”