021

The interior of the piano bar was dimly lit, filled with that smoky ambiance that would have been a perfect backdrop for a Billy Joel video. Kaitlynn Stryfe had it on good authority from her ex-husband's intel that her quarry had been coming here a few times a week. After spending two days staking out the joint, her frayed patience had been rewarded when Marco Petrillo had finally made an appearance. She lingered at the bar, nursing her Singapore Sling before she got up and made her way to his table.

She didn't wait for an invitation to join him. Instead she simply set her drink down on the table and sank into the opposite chair. A caustic smile was on her coral-painted lips as she made eye contact. "Mr. Petrillo," she purred in her most seductive voice, "you look lonely. Could you use a little company?"

The hazel eyes of Marco Petrillo turned from their enjoyment of watching the woman at the piano playing something by Ray Charles towards Kaitlynn. Only about six feet with jet black hair which he had combed back away from his face, Petrillo was of a pale complexion with a square jaw. Dressed in a pair of black pants and a white shirt with the top button open, he tilted his head as he looked at her. "Very kind of you to offer your presence, Ms. Stryfe." He had a distinct accent, muddled really making it immediately hard to tell where he was born. "Do you like Ray Charles?"

She nodded, a wistful smile on her face as she replied, "I do." Lifting her drink, she took a dainty sip of the fruity concoction before continuing. "When I was a girl, I had a vinyl single of 'Georgia On My Mind' and I used to play it day in and day out on that little plastic Fisher Price record player I had."

Petrillo nodded his head, his eyes casting back to the woman at the piano who gave him a smile as she continued with her rendition of 'What'd I Say'. His attention went back to the brunette across from him again. "I have always liked him myself. I can not recall a single song of his that does not evoke some emotion from me. But sadly, I fear you did not come join me to discuss our musical interests. What can I do for you?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see how much she knew. A mental chess game.

She let out a soft chuckle, "you know what I want, sweetie. I can see it in your eyes— my husband plays the same game. Ask only the questions you already know the answers to. I'm here because he can't be and I'm sure I'm much more pleasing to the eye than he would be." She leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table as her chin fell atop her hand. She studied him as though he was some museum curiosity with a deeper meaning. "Tell me why you were at Conviction, Mr. Petrillo."

Marco watched her for a moment, letting his fingers tap the table in a rhythm before he responded. "Nothing in this world is free, Ms. Stryfe. Not beautiful music. Not even love. But since you were so kind as to fill the void at the table, I'll give you the first answer for free. I was there at the request of Jennifer Stryfe. I had made her acquaintance the night before, and she had invited me to see the event. I do know her invitation was dual sided. She did want me to see her compete, but...she also was under the impression I was there to do something she didn't want me to do."

Kitty nodded. She'd already known that much from her conversation with Jacob in Denver. "And what was it that she thought you were up to, Mr. Petrillo? Why does a man who primarily works in Europe travel to Denver on the weekend of a wrestling event? Are you a fan of women's wrestling?"

"Not entirely. I am familiar with your place of employment, but outside of rare tours abroad, I don't have the opportunity to see it very much in person." He was momentarily impressed and taken aback, not realizing she already knew about his rare trips to the US. "She thought I was there to kill your husband. Obviously that was not the case." A waitress approached next as he ordered a neat whiskey, sending her away before he continued. "As enchanting as your company is, I am not in the business of doing much for free. I hope you brought something for my time if we are to continue this discussion further."

A tight little smile appeared on her lips as she opened the little silver clutch purse that sat next to her drink. She withdrew a perfectly wrapped stack of hundred dollar bills and covered it with the cloth napkin as discreetly as she could. "I'd expect nothing less from a man of your reputation. Ten thousand for each question of mine you answer. Is that a satisfactory deal, Mr. Petrillo?"

That brought a nod to his face as he looked into the purse with an approving nod. "Well then, Ms. Stryfe, you have my full attention." His eyes were drawn back to the cash for a second before returning his full attention to her. He had tried to estimate how much she had with her, but found it quite difficult.

She didn't smile, although it was clear in the gleam of her cool green eyes that she was pleased. "Wonderful," she murmured, lifting her drink up to her lips and taking a small swallow before returning it to the table. "I know you flew into Denver the day before you met Jennifer and allowed that crazy little bitch to take you back to her room. What I want to know is simple, Mr. Petrillo— if you weren't there to kill Alex, what was your task?"

"I was there to kill your husband actually. I just did not do so. Again for two reasons. One, Jennifer implored me and I...rather liked her. And two, Gambini decided he did not want me to do this for him. He was kind enough to pay upfront, and sadly there are no receipts. So when he informed me of that, I just took in the sights and stayed out of them as well. The only person I spoke to that night besides Jennifer is your husband's brother."

She reached into her purse and pulled out two more identical bundles and added them to the first. Given what Jackson had told her about Petrillo's past dealings with Gambini, she'd already known that he'd been behind the so-called hit. "So he told you just like that, on the day of the event that the hit was off? Just like," she snapped her fingers, "that? Seems a little out of character for him given what I know." She was aware that she was talking out loud, and seemed to be doing it for his benefit. "What aren't you telling me, Mr. Petrillo?"

"Oh, the rabbit hole goes deeper than you realize. Yes. Gambini called off the hit early that morning. He told me he felt I was too close to the situation, that I was compromised because Jennifer and I spent the night together. I told him I wasn't, and was more than capable. But he refused and told me to keep the payment. And I did not shoot Gambini, though I know who did. I was standing outside the door on the other side of the locker room." He let it hang in the air for a moment. "And that answer is going to be a lot more expensive."

She nodded, "of course." Her heart was pounding, a little prickle of unease crawling up and down her spine as she pulled out the remaining stacks from her seemingly bottomless purse— seven more stacks were added to the pile. Licking her lips, she took in a shallow breath, hoping that she hadn't just shelled out a hundred thousand dollars for him to tell her that she'd been running in circles. "Who shot Gambini, Mr. Petrillo?"

He didn't answer straight away, glancing towards the woman at the piano as she now played a song by Etta James. He enjoyed it briefly, a small smile flashing across his face till he returned his attention to Kaitlynn. "No one."

She frowned, clearly not expecting that as an answer. "I..." she hesitated, trying to understand what that could possibly mean. "I don't understand."

"In the movie world, they call them squibs. A small packet placed under one's clothes to explode and give the impression one has been shot. And I can prove it to you. One, watch the video of the officers taking out Gambini after he is discovered. They certainly got there right on time, didn't they? And I know it wasn't shown on camera, but as I watched through a door, the ambulance that Gambini was loaded into went in the opposite direction of the nearest medical center. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

Kitty blinked, her features tightening in anger. "That bastard," she hissed, "the whole thing— we've been played from start to finish."

Marco reached forward, pulling the stacks of bills towards him and lining his inner jacket pocket with them. "That you have. Ms. Parker was a red herring, the reason she even came into the room was because she heard a blank fired as everyone else did. He wanted to draw out your husband, and Ms. Parker ruined that. Anthony Gambini decided that murdering your husband was not nearly as gratifying as putting him in prison for the rest of his life."

Marco's head canted in a bit as he looked into her eyes. "Ms. Stryfe, you've been had."