Genuine Lies by Nora Roberts

wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Anyone who mattered. Over his second cup of coffee he ordered a short stack with ham and eggs on the side. He always ate when he was nervous. Delrickio was late.
    Drake laced his cup of coffee with three packs of sugar and checked his Rolex for the third time in five minutes. He tried not to sweat.
    If he had dared to risk leaving the table, he would have run into the men’s room to check his hair. He passed a careful hand over it to be sure every strand was in place. His fingers walked over the knot of his tie, finding the silk firmly in place. He brushed fussily at the sleeves of the Uomo jacket. His hammered-gold cuff links winked against the crisp ivory linen of his monogrammed shirt.
    Image was everything. For the meeting with Delrickio he needed to appear cool, confident, collected. Inside, he was a little boy with jelly knees being led out to the woodshed.
    As tough as those beatings had been, they were nothingcompared to what would happen to him if he didn’t pull off this meeting. At least when his mother had been finished with him, he’d still been alive.
    His mother’s credo had been spare the rod, spoil the child, and she had wielded that rod while religious fervor glazed her eyes.
    Delrickio’s credo ran more along the lines of business is business, and he would slice off small vital parts of Drake’s body with the same casual skill as a man paring his nails.
    Drake was checking his watch for the fourth time when Delrickio arrived. “You drink too much coffee.” He smiled as he took his seat. “It’s bad for your health.”
    Michael Delrickio was nearing sixty and took his cholesterol count as seriously as he took the business he had inherited from his father. As a result, he was both rich and robust. His olive skin was pampered by weekly facials and contrasted dramatically with steel-gray hair and a lush mustache. His hands were smooth, with the long, tapering fingers of a violinist. The only jewelry he wore was a gold wedding band. He had a thin, aesthetic face only marginally lined, and deep, rich brown eyes that could smile indulgently at his grandchildren, weep over a soaring aria, or show no expression at all when he was ordering a hit.
    Business rarely tapped Delrickio’s emotions.
    He was fond of Drake, in an avuncular fashion, though he considered Drake a fool. It was that fondness that had caused Delrickio to meet with him personally rather than send someone less fastidious to rearrange Drake’s pretty face.
    Delrickio waved for a waitress. The restaurant was crowded, noisy with whiny children and the clatter of cutlery, but he got prompt service. Power covered him as neatly as his Italian suit.
    “Grapefruit juice,” he said in his faintly Bostonian accent. “A bowl of melon balls, very cold, and whole wheat toast, dry. So,” he began when the waitress walked away. “You are well?”
    “Yes.” Drake felt his armpits dampen. “And you?”
    “Healthy as a horse.” Delrickio leaned back and pattedhis flat belly. “My Maria still makes the best linguini in the state, but I cut down on my portions, eat only a salad for lunch and go to the gym three times a week. My cholesterol’s a hundred seventy.”
    “That’s wonderful, Mr. Delrickio.”
    “This is your only body.”
    Drake didn’t want his only body carved like a turkey. “Your family?”
    “Wonderful.” Always the doting papa, he smiled. “Angelina gave me a new grandson last week. Now I have fourteen grandchildren.” It made him misty-eyed. “This is a man’s immortality. And you, Drake, you should be married to a nice girl, making babies. It would center your life.” He leaned forward, an earnest, concerned father about to impart sage advice. “It’s one thing to fuck beautiful women. A man must be a man, after all. But family, there’s nothing to replace it.”
    Drake managed a smile as he lifted his cup. “I’m still looking.”
    “When you stop thinking with your dick and