Chapter 3
“Should we follow, sir?”
I glance beyond the windshield through the gap between my driver and Brahms, keeping my eyes trained on the woman hurrying across the road.
The ratty gray coat that’s several sizes too big swallows her small frame and practically drags on the ground.
The dreadful thing must have been black once, but even the faint streetlights can’t hide the fact that its original color was lost ages ago.
She pulls the flaps of that eyesore tightly around herself as she leaps over a puddle to the sidewalk and rushes toward the bus stop.
“Not yet. This car is too conspicuous,” I say. “Where is she headed?”
Brahms, being the details-oriented, anal-retentive prick that makes him a great chief of security, takes out a thick leather notepad from the glove compartment and starts leafing through it.
“Thursday evenings, she has a shift as a dishwasher at a Back Bay restaurant. She gets off usually sometime between midnight and one.”
From Brahms’s initial background check, I already know that Iris is a full-time cook at Spada’s, working six days a week from five-thirty in the morning till two, and also works part time at a flower shop. “How many jobs does she have?”
“Based on the intel gathered by my men over the last couple of weeks, Iris Fabbri is employed at the don’s household Monday through Saturday.
She’s their cook, but because Don Spada and his wife often eat out, she also frequently helps the maids around the house.
Twice a week, Ms. Fabbri walks dogs for the two-bit owner of an IT startup in Beacon Hill.
In addition to Thursday nights at the restaurant, she works the late afternoon shift as a sales clerk at the North End hardware store on Tuesdays.
And Wednesday evenings she’s at the flower shop near her place. ”
Five jobs. I shift to the side to get a better view of the girl. She’s now standing at the bus stop, stomping her feet on the ground. Is she cold?
“Oh, and…she also volunteers at the homeless shelter. Not sure how often, yet,” Brahms adds and closes his notepad.
A city bus turns the corner and pulls up to the bus stop, blocking my view of the ever-busy Iris Fabbri. A few seconds later, it departs, leaving the bus shelter empty. She got on.
“Follow it,” I instruct Jim, my driver. “Keep us in the left lane, in line with the bus.”
The sleek Bentley Mulsanne limo pulls into traffic with a low-frequency rumble, gliding smoothly over cracked asphalt.
It’s been a decade or more since I was in this part of the city.
The neighborhood looks even worse than I remember.
As we draw alongside the bus’s left flank, I slide my window up.
The glass is dark-tinted, so it’s impossible to see in from the outside.
The interior of the bus is illuminated, and it’s nearly empty, making it easy to spot a lone woman right away. She is seated next to a window facing our side of the road, munching on a small green apple.
That visual in itself is a bit peculiar.
In an age where everyone seems to be constantly lugging oversized, overpriced cups of coffee, or the latest craze smoothies peddled by some social media influencer somewhere, seeing someone enjoying a simple piece of fruit is truly rare. But maybe not for her.
According to Brahms’s info, the woman likely can’t afford an all-organic-avocado-chia seeds-whatever nonsense crap.
She lives with her mother in a rented apartment located in one of the worst parts of town.
She dropped out of school at sixteen so she could work full time and help pay her mother’s medical bills.
Aside from infrequent get-togethers with her few friends, all she does is work.
No partying at the nightclubs. No shopping sprees or spa days with the girls.
Basically, none of the things I’d expect from a typical twenty-four-year-old.
Even her love life seems dreadful. Though I can’t stop my jaw from clenching as this detail pops into my mind.
Her only known romantic entanglement is with some schmuck working security at Spada’s.
A twentysomething goofball who usually mans the main gate.
I guess he’s known for his less-than-clever and not-at-all-funny jokes.
Is that the kind of man she’s attracted to?
Someone who’s a comedian, or a wanna-be at least?
My hand tightens into a fist as that possibility gnaws at me.
“Move ahead just a bit, and keep pace,” I tell Jim.
“Yes, sir.”
The driver does as he’s been told, bringing my window essentially in alignment with the girl’s.
In the front passenger seat, Brahms continues to fake disinterest in my bizarre behavior by messing around on his phone.
Something he’s never done before in my presence.
If he thinks I’ve gone off the deep end, he hasn’t made a peep about it.
When I asked him for intel on Don Spada’s cook, he didn’t speculate about my intentions.
He just did it, like the outstanding employee that he is.
He’s amply paid to get things done, not to question me.
But I bet it’s driving him up the wall, not knowing the motive or reasons for my odd requests.
I can’t blame him, especially since I don’t have a fucking clue myself.
What the hell am I doing? This isn’t me.
I don’t make asinine decisions. I don’t spend an ounce of my limited free time on things that don’t benefit my businesses or me personally.
And more than anything else, never in my entire life have I voluntarily left a witness alive.
Particularly, one who could make said life difficult.
But here I am, practically stalking a woman who by rights should already be dead. My senseless actions are absurd.
“The bus is turning, sir,” the driver interrupts my thoughts.
“Stick to it,” I say. “Brahms, where is this place she works at?”
“A few more blocks, Mr. Ruffo.”
We keep pace with the bus, and I keep my attention on the woman, contemplating what it was that made me deviate from my usual tactics as far as Little Iris is concerned.
With her long, dark-blonde hair and pixie face, she is undeniably beautiful, but feminine beauty has never swayed me before.
Has never previously affected my focus or influenced my decisions.
As she sat in that obnoxiously massive wingback at Brio’s, facing me, I could clearly see she was frightened.
Hell, her pulse raced so hard, I could practically hear her heart thundering in her chest. Looking at her, I gave her less than a couple of minutes before she fainted.
Instead, the little flower had the audacity to point my own gun at me.
Fuck me. My dick got hard in an instant.
That slip of a girl surprised me when nothing in this world ever does.
I should have killed her. Should have done it right then and there, just for causing that goddamn reaction.
After all, Little Iris’s destiny was sealed the moment she crossed the threshold into Brio’s library.
It should have been like every other time.
Like all the others I’ve eliminated through the years without ever noticing their appearance or gender, only whether they threatened the empire I’ve built.
Her choice to defy me that night should have been fatal.
Only time will tell if my decision to spare her will be as such to me.
Maybe that’s the reason I’m following her now? I’m seeking the elusive answer. A reason for why Little Iris is still breathing. An explanation for her effect on me.
“She’ll get off at the next stop.” Brahms’s gaze connects with mine over his shoulder. “How do you want to proceed?”
I should tell him to keep driving and send someone to take care of this loose end. I should forget she exists.
“Pull over,” I say instead. “Leave enough distance to make sure she doesn’t notice us.”
A minute later, Iris exits the bus and rushes to the corner flower shop.
With its old window frames covered in peeling paint and the scuffed-up door, the place is the slightest step above a dump.
The moment she’s out of view, the pain that’s been throbbing behind my right eye explodes across my skull and burrows into my temple.
I grit my teeth, waiting for the piercing twinge to pass.
On a scale from one to fucking-shoot-me-right-now, it’s a solid seven.
It typically takes a few minutes for the intensity to settle at a steady three.
That’s when I consider myself “migraine-free.” Otherwise, the pain never leaves me.
It never stops. The pressure at my temple never fully subsides.
“Mr. Ruffo?”
I slip my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose. “What is it, Brahms?”
“Ms. Fabbri went inside. You mentioned that you have a video call with the San Francisco bureau in less than an hour, so should we head to the office or…?”
“Headquarters, Brahms.”
“Understood. Once we drop you off, I’ll—”
“You’re staying here.”
He stares at me, a million questions in his shrewd eyes. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”
“Wait until the girl’s shift ends.”
“Sure. And when it does?”
In my pocket, my hand tightens around the small cellophane-wrapped treat. For God knows what reason, I’ve been carrying that stupid cookie with me for the past two weeks. “Then follow her home, discreetly, to make sure she gets there safely.”