Chapter 5
Ellie
As scared as I was, Ringo did one thing well. Piss me off until I wasn’t shaking anymore. And even if I was still shaking, I could blame it on being angry.
Yet, he brought tacos.
Was that enough to forgive him for following me? And I didn’t buy his whole schtick about following someone who was following me for one damn minute. He had to be following me first in order to spot whoever it was. If it was anyone at all.
I replayed the last half hour in my head.
While I hadn’t figured for certain if someone actually followed me on my ride home, obviously someone, specifically him, evaded detection.
How could I concentrate? He’d showed up at my bar, sat in my favorite chair, and let’s not forget something really important, the FBI were targeting me… again.
How would I avoid their notice with an assassin dumping takeout on my table at two A.M.?
My nerves were shot. During my usual sweep of the house to check windows and confirm the bar was in place to lock the sliding door to the patio, I thought I saw something in the parking lot.
But aside from one or two new cars in the lot, nothing seemed out of place.
Until I swore I heard someone by the dumpsters.
That was my one complaint about this place. I’d bought it before realizing that my unit’s bedroom was right next to where the garbage trucks backed into the short alley at seven A.M., every Tuesday.
I owned a bar that shut its doors at two and had a nightly cleaning routine. Do the math.
And right after that noise, there was nothing.
Which was more than odd, it was terrifying.
Because if there had been the expected noise of a garbage bag landing inside with its clanging echo, or the crunch of footsteps walking away, or even the rusty creak of someone pushing the wooden gate closed, then I would have relaxed.
But there was no sound.
Not out there. It was all in my head. My imagination supplied a horror-soundtrack complete with heavy breathing and an ominous music bed perfectly designed to scare the shit out of me.
I’d finally written it off and was getting ready for bed when Ringo buzzed the intercom.
No one friendly used my intercom. They called. Even the food delivery people called or texted. Duh.
Then I heard his voice and lost my damn mind.
Why did I let him in?
Savory slow-cooked beef was not a valid excuse.
Bone chilling terror? Plausible, but wimpy as heck.
EVS?
Quite possibly. But an empty vagina was easily solved.
I had the mortifying suspicion that the real reason I opened that damn door was because my dumb broken heart had poisoned my entire body and was slowly taking over my brain.
A flesh-eating zombie virus would be more welcome.
Ringo handed me two extra-spicy sauce packets as I unwrapped my second taco.
I didn’t move. He set them down next to the crumpled wrapper and continued eating as if he hadn’t just shoved the foundations of my soul ten feet sideways.
There were three varieties of sauces to choose from, and he picked the right kind. Proving he was not only observant, but damn him, watching out for my needs.
Or maybe he was just manipulating me?
Whatever. Eat first, question the dubious morals of an international hitman later.
He’s the kind you think can protect you, but they only draw you into the darkness. Casey’s words rang through my brain.
“Do I have sauce on my chin or something?” Ringo asked.
Busted. But two could play at that. I picked up a napkin, spit on the corner and wiped his face.
He froze.
Even that wasn’t normal. I mean, most guys would freeze in terror because they’d basically just been spit on, or they’d recoil in disgust.
With Ringo, it was the stillness of a predator who’d just spotted his next meal.
I was sick of being a target. “I told you not to talk.”
He tossed his food to the plate. A whole minute went by as he debated breaking my rules and pissing me off more, or whether he really wanted to escalate the war to DEFCON four.
“You’re a piece of work.”
Straight to nukes.
“Says the guy who stalked me from a tiny ass villa in the hills of Barbagia all the way to suburban Chicago.”
“I’m not stalking you.”
“You are a liar.”
“Like that’s a crime?”
I growled. He was infuriating. “Since you brought it up, let’s talk about crime for a minute.”
His face blanked. “Let’s not and say we did.” He glanced at the windows next to us.
From age nine I’d known exactly why he said that and looked where he did. And I also knew a million and one ways to say something completely harmless just in case you were being eavesdropped on but really needed to say something un-harmless.
“Did you know that Chicago averages over 600 homicides in a year?”
His eyes went cold.
“And that the local FBI building houses over 600 employees. They can do 700 if they experience a high volume in case load.”
“Did you know your hands are shaking?”
I set my taco down and tucked my fingers between my knees where he couldn’t see them. “Did you know you that an erect blue whale’s penis is over twelve inches in diameter and that still isn’t the biggest dick on the planet?”
Ringo snorted. “No, I didn’t know that. But I suppose the biggest dick is exactly one hundred and eighty-one centimeters tall, weighs 81 kilograms, and knows exactly what your face looks like when you orgasm.”
My breath stalled in my throat. With it, my eyes got that funnily warm tingle of excess moisture pooling at the edges, and my hearing got fuzzy in the corners.
I tried to form words and failed.
“Breathe, Ellie.”
As if I needed his permission? “You’re a bastard.”
“Everyone knows that.” He tried to laugh at his own joke and failed. Oddly, he broke eye contact with me, and I could suck in air without the weight of his scrutiny clamping my throat shut.
“I found out who he is…was.” He stared at the plate in front of him.
“Wh-who?”
He sighed. “Someone awful. They… uh… were in hospice care for complications from a gunshot wound, and last night their breathing stopped. Attempts at revival were unsuccessful.”
“Did you know he was in a bad way?”
Ringo snorted bitterly. His gaze drifted to the window. “Let’s say it’s one of those occupational hazards of mine.”
My eyes bugged out. It was on the tip of my tongue to blurt out, “Did you do it?”
And he must have read it on my face. “I’d just landed at O’Hare this morning when Mario called me to let me know. He thought I would need that information.” Ringo licked his lips and resumed his vacant perusal of the food we’d both abandoned.
My brain worked overtime to process everything. It almost sounded like I should know who his father was, but the only person I knew who’d been shot was—
Holy shit.
I must have muttered the words out loud because his eyes snapped up to trap mine.
“Yeah. I’m here on real business. Call it a hostile takeover, or something.” He frowned and picked up his food.
“Does his daughter…?”
God, my mind went blank. Dianora was in jail awaiting trial for shooting her father. Now it would be upgraded to murder. And since there was still the unsolved murder of her brother which she helped organize with the help of my ex—
“That’s why.” It wasn’t just a lightbulb but one of those super-strong searchlight-type do-hickeys shooting off.
“Why what?” Ringo asked.
I wiggled my empty ring finger where he could see it.
His eyes went to it. An eyebrow went up. “Yeah. Eat… if you can.”
Food and gory memories didn’t mix. My head still felt fuzzy, and my body processed all these shocks after shocks with very little comfort between.
No sooner than I thought the word, I remembered how nice it felt to have Ringo’s arms around me.
And it wasn’t just one memory, but multiple.
From the cute hug he gave me in the airport in Venice, to the way he picked me up in the piazza, one very long night of touches, and a heartfelt hug in the Galleria of Vittorio Emanuele II right after I finished my third twirl on top of the mosaic bull.
Lastly, waking up in his arms as he ran out of a Tuscan fortress with guns blazing and…
His father. Damn.
“You really shouldn’t be here.” Once word got out that Don Conti was his father, the sharks would circle.
Not just law enforcement, but other factions.
Don Conti’s family would also be gunning for him since he was an outsider.
Worse? He was sitting right here at my little two-person cafe-style dining table, eating tacos with his half-brother’s killer’s ex.
It was a complete cluster fuck.
“Aiaiu wants me here. Right here.” His finger pressed on the table, pinning him in place.
How does it feel to be one of those paper shooting targets?
The words remained behind the secrecy of my thoughts.
“Aiaiu” meant grandfather. A term of affection in Sardinia, but also the title of the patriarch of the familial organization Ringo was adopted into.
No one called Don Manca that unless they were family.
Shit. Family, capital F. My sister taught me that.
She was allowed to call him that, and I wasn’t.
But Ringo was, and worse? He uttered it in front of me, who wasn’t Family.
My foolish heart whispered vain hopes. I stabbed that bitch with a flaming chopstick…mentally.
“I guess you’ll have to let him know I don’t want you here.”
Ringo laughed silently. His shoulders shook even after his mouth closed and his face twisted into a mix of amusement and pain. “Nice try. I’m going to sleep on your couch tonight.”
“No, you’re not.” I knew him better. He’d pretend to sleep, and instead stare through the plate glass watching the shadows until the sun rose. Even then, he wouldn’t sleep.
“Your bed then. With you.”
“Hell no.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
This time his face didn’t fall before the laughter died. But in the slow creep into seriousness, something shifted.
Longing.
Maybe I was misreading the emotion. Maybe I was simply pushing my own mixed signals there. Or maybe it was just…
Pain.
I tucked my hands between my knees again, shivering from a draft that had snuck up on me.
“I’m here.”
I shook my head, trying to deny him. But it was weak. Fragile.
The brutal truth was, I still mourned his loss even though I was the one who’d pushed him away. I simply couldn’t live my life with a killer. It would place me into a cage that I thought I’d escaped before.
The truth was, I hadn’t escaped. I’d only dug back under the fence and planted my stupid butt inside the zoo I knew.
Johnny Porciello was a killer. A guy who wanted to be “mobbed-up” so badly, he cheated on me with a twisted woman made even more evil by the patriarchal organization who’d never let her manage her own destiny.
Her failure, as evilly executed as it was, meant yet another generation of women who would live their lives at best as commodities, and in the worst ways, as victims. I couldn’t possibly want that, could I?
With every fiber of my being, my heart cried. It begged for Ringo’s touch. His gentle care. His lies. I could easily settle into the false ignorance my sister embraced. Living with Ringo would be one long nightmare.
And probably the one great love of my lifetime.
I was smarter than that. I had to be.
With new determination, I cleaned up the mess on the table and forced myself to accept what I couldn’t change tonight. He’d invoked Don Manca’s name. Even I wasn’t strong enough, or stupid enough to try to argue with the leader of a group of assassins.
Once the main kitchen-dining area was sorted, I moved to the bedroom to get Ringo a blanket for his cold camp on my couch. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting murdered in my sleep. I had an assassin guard dog.
“Embrace the good.” It was my new mantra. Or maybe an old one I’d resurrected.
“Wait.” Ringo shoved past me and did a quick sweep of my bedroom, even going as far as rising on tiptoe to peer out my window at the dumpster fence.
“I heard a noise there earlier. Was that you?”
He glared at me. “No.”
Crap.
I tugged the comforter I’d meant to retrieve off the shelf I’d crammed it into. “Grab a pillow, but not any of the feather ones. Those are mine.”
He picked up one of the plush throw pillows I kept on my bed and stared at the fuzzy raised lettering crocheted into the cover. “Fuck off?”
“Turn it over.”
He laughed as he read. “…You.”
He missed a word.
“You’re sleeping on the couch,” I said as I flounced out.