Chapter 9 #2
“You go as unexpectedly as you come, like a shooting star.” He peers down at my boot, where I sheathed my knife. “You’re comfortable with knives, are you?” His question is heavy with meaning, and for once, I know exactly what’s being implied.
“I’m not The Reaper, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The old man bursts out laughing. “Yes, I like him. Sometime, you come back, and we’ll have a drink.”
I give him a thin smile and make my exit, hoping to disappear while DiAngelo says his own goodbyes. No such luck. A minute later, he jogs up beside me and pulls me to a stop.
“Whoa, little brother. You’re not getting away that easily.”
“I’m not your little brother.”
“No, but you’re Renzo’s brother, and I take family seriously—mine or my friend’s.”
“Look, there’s nothing to tell. Sante’s cop friend Malone is working the murder of those three Russians. He was asking questions, which I didn’t answer, but I learned Biba was after some woman. I wanted to know the score.”
Again, his withering stare tries to break me down, but I hold firm.
He has a long way to go until he reaches the status of Uncle Lazaro, our guardian in Sicily.
That man’s scowl could strip paint right off the wall.
He took care of us—taught us everything—and did it while being the scariest motherfucker I’ve ever met.
If I can look him in the eye, I can stand tall to anyone.
DiAngelo caves, sighing heavily. “I know I don’t have to tell you, but I’m gonna do it anyway. Be careful butting your nose into Biba’s business. The man’s a lunatic.”
“You’re right. Your warning is unnecessary, but I appreciate it anyway. And thanks for the introduction. I owe you.”
We shake hands and part ways. I’m glad because I’m antsy to get back to my apartment. It’s time to make Danika give me some answers, but first, I have one more stop to make. Especially knowing what I do now, it’s past time I got a lock on that bedroom door.
“How’d it go?” Sante asks when I return home. He’s on his laptop in the living room by himself, and the place is quiet.
“I won’t know until I ask her some questions, but it’s not looking good.” I speak quietly since I’m not sure where she is. “The girls in her bedroom?”
“Amelie’s gone. One of the others picked her up to go see Pippa and the twins in the hospital. She had them early this morning.” Sante closes the laptop screen and stands. “Good luck, man. And call me later. I want to know what’s happening.”
He lets himself out, and I go in search of the little thief.
Her bedroom door is open, allowing me to watch her for a moment before she notices my presence.
She’s sitting on the bed with her knees up, supporting her tablet while she holds a pen to the screen.
Her hair is piled in a messy clump on her head, stray tendrils lending her an innocence that I fear she doesn’t deserve.
Maybe not, but there’s no denying her beauty. Something about the white sheets around her makes me think of a Grecian goddess—like she should have a lyre in her hands rather than a computer. It doesn’t seem right that she should be so disarming yet so deceitful at the same time.
I could get the truth from her. I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I could do it. Everyone caves eventually with the proper motivation.
I set that thought aside and walk to the bedside to see what she’s working on.
“Oh! I didn’t realize you were back.”
I ignore her comment and motion for her to hand over the device. I can already see the image, but it’s so unexpectedly poignant that I need to take a closer look.
“You did this?”
“Yes, I’ve been working on it for a few weeks.”
Her gift is exceptional. And I appreciate the realism of the piece.
Everything she’s depicted is drawn in perfect detail so there can be no question about what it is.
A city street so busy with detail I can feel the energy, every bit in black and white save for a small brown teddy bear abandoned on the curb.
The most striking part of all is the sadness it elicits without even knowing why.
She’s making some sort of statement. As usual, I’m clueless, but I don’t have to understand the specific message to be affected by it.
Such loneliness and despair—sentiments I know well.
“That’s impressive.”
“Thank you. I—”
“Stand up,” I interrupt, dropping the tablet on the bed.
She follows my orders despite the worry that creases her brow. Her gaze drifts to my right hand and the bloody knuckles she likely noticed when I took the tablet from her.
“You make people see what you want them to see when they look at your artwork. Does that gift extend to other aspects of your life?”
“What do you mean?” Her attempt to scoot backward is thwarted by the nightstand. “What’s this about? You’re scaring me, Tommy.”
It’s the first time she’s spoken my name. I hate how perfect it sounds on her lips. Her lying, deceitful lips.
I bring my hand to her throat, slowly wrapping my fingers around her. “I spoke with a Russian man today. A man who knows Biba well.”
Her face blanches, and I could swear she sways in my hold. “Please, stop,” she whispers, sparking my fury.
“No, you stop. Stop fucking lying and tell me the truth .” I need to know what’s really going on, and I need her to trust me. I know this isn’t the way to gain that trust, but fuck if I know how else to do it.
“I told you—” Again, I cut her off, but this time it’s with a kiss.
No, not a kiss.
There’s nothing romantic about my desperation.
My demands. I use my lips to beg in the only way I know how.
I devour her. I worship and plead and rage with the sweep of my tongue and the graze of my teeth.
I give her a window into the crippling desire I feel for her—an admission I do not take lightly—in the hope that she might allow me past her defenses.
Because if she doesn’t find a way to trust me, the consequences may kill us both.