Turning Point||Book 2

29. Romano.

The walls boasted vibrant hues, the floor shimmered with a reflective sheen, and the ceiling secreted a pristine white. In the moment of traversing the reception area, the faint reflection nearly revealed the dark circles under my eyes, proof that I really had not slept for the most of the weekend.

Guided by a woman in a dress too small to contain her curves and a shoe so high I wondered how she managed to walk, I strode purposefully, following her lead to Jerry Keith.

A simple inquiry regarding the company's publishing process had afforded me access to Bright Bird, and it seemed poised to grant me an audience with the almighty Executive Director, Keith.

Xenia, in conversation days prior, had cited that typical protocol necessitated appointments for meetings with the company's staff, yet observed exceptions for those with pressing inquiries.

I had seized upon this opportunity. Frankly, the sight of a man seeping sartorial elegance often implied affluence which was a currency universally hankered, particularly by such establishments eager to align themselves with prestige and influence.

Exiting the elevator, we proceeded down a bright corridor until we reached a door. The woman knocked and entered ahead of me, engaging in a quiet exchange with the director before being granted permission to invite me in.

Once inside, a surge of both anger and irritation overtook me as I laid eyes on him.

Now, I realized, I didn't exactly like blonde and blue-eyed sickos.

Today, I found myself waking up with a short fuse, likely all the worse because of the lingering memory of last night's altercation with Kate about the pregnancy. If provoked further, I might find myself tempted to tighten my grip around this man's neck, witnessing the gradual deprivation of oxygen to his brain.

He had better have made this meeting straightforward for both his sake and mine, because I had no interest this morning in the smell of blood or the act of disposing a dead body.

The lady excused herself and closed the door behind her, and Jerry Keith fixed me with a curious smile that gradually morphed into recognition.

"Romano De Rossi, am I mistaken?" he ventured, leaning back in his chair that creaked, his gaze probing until it felt almost invasive.

Drawing nearer, I presented him with the chance to determine if, when confronted by my expertise, he could excel or flounder in comparison.

"Keith, Keith, I understand your disbelief." A hint of a laugh colored my tone as I assertively unbuttoned my suit jacket and took a seat across from him. "The sight of a member of the TIF is truly a prodigy. But when it graces your presence, rest assured, it's as real as the ground beneath your feet."

"True enough." He, too, let a chuckle slip. "Encounters with individuals of, let's say, dubious repute are rather rare in these parts. I trust you're well aware of that."

"Quibbling over labels isn't really my thing, you see. Call us what you will, but I'm telling you, it takes a certain caliber to command your attention." I spread my arms around to drive my point across before adding, "And here I am, commanding it effortlessly."

As I surveyed the office space, my eyes quickly absorbed the details: the rich mahogany desk harmonizing with the bookshelves flanking the walls, the framed certificates and awards proudly displayed behind Jerry Keith, attesting to his professional accomplishments.

I couldn't help but wonder how many tales of the Family's crime he had spun to reach his current position. How many lies had he fabricated, how many truths had he twisted to earn accolades in Investigative Documentaries?