Chapter 30
30
SAMANTHA
L ife is calm in Mary’s house.
Miraculously, the paparazzi don’t follow me here. Maybe it’s because the final episode of the Mousetrap podcast aired over a month ago. Maybe they don’t think Mary’s home photographs as well as one of Braiden’s mansions. Maybe they’re all distracted by new stories—the high school senior claiming Mayor Thompson fathered her twins, the man found with three scalped heads in his freezer, the movie star who claimed aliens possessed her as she drove her car into the Schuylkill.
I don’t know who claimed their attention. I’m just grateful to have some peace and quiet.
All three of Mary’s roommates trade off making dinner—simple, nourishing meals designed to stretch a dollar. A chart on the refrigerator lists rotating household chores—wash the dishes, clean the bathrooms, mow the lawns. A folder on the counter holds receipts for groceries, utility bills, the occasional pizza ordered as a special treat.
My room is the smallest, at the back of the house. The double bed makes everything a tight fit. The dresser only has three drawers, and a milk crate stands in for a nightstand. The house is too old for closets, but four wooden hooks jut from the wall.
We all share the one bathroom at the top of the stairs. I buy a plastic bucket to hold my shampoo and conditioner, my toothbrush and toothpaste and hairbrush.
I rescue my suits from the closet in my office. I pick up a packet of white cotton underwear and two plain, matching bras. I sleep in an over-size gray T-shirt that was on sale at Wal-Mart.
Mary is gentle. Her roommates are kind. No one fights; no one even raises their voice. I feel like I’m wrapped in tissue paper, covered by bubble wrap, surrounded by packing peanuts.
There are no sharp edges to life with Mary Rivers. No passion, certainly. But no danger either.
Back at work, I write an article about a proposed new federal tax on luxury goods. It’s a long shot the bill will get through Congress, but I send my summary to every freeport client. I add a personal note to Russo: Depending on your personal inventory, this might be a concern . I don’t dare say more. I don’t want to spook him, don’t want him to think I’m prying.
I don’t add a note to Braiden’s copy.
While I wait to see if Russo will bite, I live my life. After a week, Mary and her housemates fold me into the household schedule. I cook dinner on Mondays. I take out the trash on Wednesdays. I unload the dishwasher on Fridays.
It’s all so simple. So easy. So safe.
At the freeport, I complete my final review of Trap’s plans for the monthly gathering of his richest clients. Diamond Ring activities always require sign-off from Legal. I decide if we need to contact our insurance providers or if we need local lawyers on call with bail money. The July get-together is costly but simple: A finish-line suite at the Miami Formula 1 Grand Prix.
The Friday before the race, I renew my argument that I should be there. Our clients might have questions about their gambling winnings, about how large windfalls are handled by the tax code.
Trap finally agrees. I tell my housemates that I’ll be away for the weekend. On the Friday before the race, Trap takes a photo of us standing beside his private plane and texts it to the entire Diamond Ring.
Trap
Your freeport team ready to serve.
When we touch down in Florida, Trap passes me his phone. There’s a text from Braiden:
Braiden
Sorry. Emergency at work. Can’t make it.
There are a million emergencies that could be real—shipments gone astray, soldiers out of line, city inspectors getting too interested in the Thornfield ruins.
But I’m pretty sure I’m the emergency. Braiden won’t come to Miami because I’m here.
At least we won’t have to keep a medical team on standby, with Braiden and Russo in the same suite.
On Sunday, race day, I get to the track early. I’m working, so I wear my gray suit and a white top. My hair is pulled back in a neat French twist. I carry my briefcase.
Russo is the last of the Ring to arrive, except for Braiden. Trap is busy chatting up other clients, so I greet our final guest alone. “Don Antonio,” I say. Even though it’s early afternoon, I hand him his favorite cocktail, a negroni.
“Ah,” he says, after sipping the blood-red drink. “You remember, Giovanna.”
I make a point of looking down, of clutching my hands together. It’s not difficult to seem nervous; just standing next to the man who murdered my cousin sends my pulse into overdrive.
“But please,” Russo says. “I do not wish to keep you from the race.”
He gestures toward the window that looks over the track, where twenty spider-like race cars are taking up positions for the formation lap. I have no choice but to walk in front of him. His palm settles over the small of my back, over my hidden tattoo. A wave of nausea rolls through me, so strong I stumble.
Russo’s flat fingers clasp my elbow. “Careful, Giovanna.”
I don’t know if he’s telling me to watch my step, or if his warning means something more. He doesn’t release his grip until we join the others, and it takes all my willpower not to glance down at my sleeve, to see if the fabric is actually charred or if the stink of sulfur is only in my mind.
An hour and a half later, Red Bull has won the race. Ferrari takes second, and McLaren an unexpected third. I’m back at the bar, pouring a bracing tonic and lime, because I don’t trust myself with the Jameson I crave.
I feel Russo behind me, as if my tattoo is equipped with a silent alarm. He reaches for the Campari to build himself a fresh drink. I’m effectively trapped against the bar.
“Where is your so-called husband, Giovanna?”
We both look at my left hand at the same time, at the faint band of white where I used to wear two rings.
“Ah, sweet Giovanna,” he says, as if he truly cares. “The stronzo leaves his mate.”
“ I left him ,” I say, faster and angrier than I mean to. I try to temper my words by adding, “Don Antonio.”
He leans in close. My segno kindles from his body heat, sending a dull ache up my spine to the back of my eyes. “If I had known, cara , I would have sent my jet to Dover. We could have traveled here together, you and I.”
I have to swallow three times before I can speak, and then my words are only a whisper. “I wish you had, Don Antonio.”
He laughs and traces my cheek with a finger. My stomach cramps, hard and sharp. I clutch my glass of bitter tonic and will myself not to vomit.
“Antonio!” Trap calls from the front of the room. “They’re awarding the trophies.”
My knees buckle when Russo leaves, and sweat pools in my armpits. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths until my body registers that the threat has passed—for now.
It takes an effort, but I finally rally my thoughts. This is necessary. This is what I have to do, if I’m ever going to convince Russo to trust me with his most damning documents.
The Mafia don collects his winnings from other members of the Diamond Ring. They ask how he knew to put it all on Red Bull, and he laughs. “They’re gold and red. The colors of Sicily.” The ache in my tattoo flares to a sharp pang, as if the lines are etched with acid.
Russo leaves after that, claiming he has other business at the racetrack. Looking back from the door to the suite, he skewers me with one last gaze. He points his finger at me like an imaginary gun, and then he’s gone.
Back in Dover that night, Mary can tell I’m upset. She’s become a friend, yes, but she’s still my assistant at work. It would be unprofessional to tell her about the Diamond Ring, about the day at the races, about Russo.
So we pop a giant bowl of popcorn, and she sprinkles parmesan cheese on top, the stuff that comes in the round green can. We sit in front of the television, sharing a blanket across our laps, and we watch episodes from past seasons of The Great British Baking Show . There’s plenty of room on the couch when our housemates get home, and by the end we’re all casting votes for our favorite baker.
It’s not until I’m curled up under my plain black comforter in my blank-walled room that I replay everything that happened in Florida. I want to stop. Stop waiting for the ethics decision. Stop putting myself in danger. Stop trying to make Russo trust me.
I started down this path so I could give Braiden something he couldn’t get on his own, something he couldn’t steal, couldn’t buy. Now that Braiden is gone, it’s stupid to risk my life for him.
But no.
I didn’t go after Russo just to satisfy Braiden. I acted for revenge against the animal who murdered my cousin. Who killed my parents. Who disclosed my deepest secret and destroyed my life, my practicing law in the only job I’ve ever loved.
I want to—I need to—destroy Antonio Russo for me .
Even if it takes weeks, months, years, I won’t give up until I see him brought to justice.