8. Salvatore
8
SALVATORE
“Andrés says his crew isn’t too pleased with the new product. Might be a bit short. His bosses are looking into it, but they’re worried you’ll think they’re trying to fuck you over.”
“Are they?” I scan through the flickering images on the thirty computer monitors above my desk. Six are trained to the house cameras. One more than yesterday. Marisol walks out of frame of the kitchen camera with Camillo trailing a little too far behind. In a few seconds, they should reappear in the foyer camera or the cameras over the stairs. Three… two…
I scowl. Where are they?
“Maybe. Andrés says you have a nice ass.”
I cast a disbelieving eye at Dom, his skin tinged greenish yellow in the monitors’ glow. “Not with short product.”
“Always figured you for a size queen.” Dom grins and nods to the cameras leading up the stairs. “Looks like they’re heading to the balcony.”
My relief rises like a child’s balloon at the sight of Marisol’s long, dark hair swaying with each step. Camillo follows, way too close this time. Pop .
“You gonna ride Camillo’s ass some more?”
“I won’t have to if he does his job right.”
“And how’s he supposed to do that?” Dom stretches a few fingers out to Buck who watches him with ears drawn back. The cat swipes at him before running off, and Dom laughs. “When he’s not close enough, you complain and when he’s too close, you’re straight up pissy. Why don’t you just put Mari in a cage and throw her up here with us? Then you could watch her all the time.”
He’s being sarcastic, but the thought of Marisol so nearby and safe feels right . She’d be furious, but she’d get over it eventually, wouldn’t she?
A smile flickers over my mouth. I remember the woman with a lockpick between her teeth.
She’d escape a cage, given half a chance.
Better to give her this half freedom, where she can roam around the house as she pleases. Aldo’s nearly back from Vegas and when he meets her, I can get his promise that Junior won’t touch her and that she can work for me. This isn’t rushed and underdone like on the train. I’m being patient. Giving her space. Last night was proof that this is working. She let me tend to her cut lip. It’s killing me to wait this long, but in a day or two, I’ll start joining her at the dining room table, and as she grows accustomed to me, she’ll relax. This place will become home to her too.
“You know you’re an asshole for considering it,” Dom says.
What were we talking about?
Right, Marisol in a cage.
I scrub a hand over my face. “I don’t want her in a cage. I want her to be safe. And I want her to make her own choices. But what she wants is a computer and a phone, and I might as well give her a loaded gun and let her loose in the house.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be real patient and understanding about that. She’s a patient and understanding kind of woman, isn’t she?” Dom says, smirking. He’s seen nearly as much of Marisol as I have, a realization that always makes jealousy slither through my veins.
“No.”
Marisol’s impulsive and stubborn. And she doesn’t like missing the full picture. She won’t tolerate this forever.
“If I give her freedom, I need to keep her from lashing out.“
“You could bring her over to Junior’s. Let him throw a tantrum. Show her what’s on the other side.”
“I don’t want any more of Junior’s attention on her than necessary. This needs to blow over so he can fixate on something else.”
Dom’s skeptical look speaks volumes. Junior doesn’t forgive, and he doesn’t forget. There’s no hiding Marisol behind my back and hoping he moves on.
“Have Worm pull up some of his warehouse videos,” Dom suggests.
“That’ll give her nightmares.” Some of the things I’ve seen Junior do in his warehouse have given me nightmares.
“Good. Maybe she’ll want someone to keep her safe at night,” he says with a wink. “You know what that woman really needs? It’s written all over her face. She could use a good?—”
“ Don’t. ”
Dom doesn’t finish his statement, but he’s wearing a smug, idiot grin. He might be a good head taller than me, but that just makes it easier to aim for his kneecaps. The mental image soothes me enough to compose my face into a neutral expression. Infuriatingly enough, it just makes Dom grin wider. Shithead.
“Let Worm know I want those videos of Junior. And make sure Andrés understands I’ll do a full audit of his imports if anything’s coming in short.”
“Will do, boss.” Dom gives me a lazy salute and saunters out of the room.
I slide into my computer chair to scan the house cameras again. The tightness in my chest eases a fraction as I spot her.
She’s standing barefoot on the balcony near the handrails. Camillo sits in a lounge chair a little too far away, watching a soccer match on his phone.
For a few moments, I think she might finally be settling in and enjoying the view, but when I track her eyeline, I realize what she’s looking at, and my hands curl into tight fists.
I lean toward the monitor showing her sweet, na?ve face. Her lips are moving imperceptibly.
She’s counting the seconds between the guards. She’s looking for a gap in their patrol.
“If you try to fly away,” I tell her image in a low voice, “I’ll break your wings.”
It’s nighttime before I’m able to pull away from work.
All day long, my gaze kept slipping back to Marisol on the balcony and only the ping of an email or text to my phone would break the spell and force me to realize how much time I’d lost watching her.
I roll my shoulders as I push up from my chair.
Things need to change. My strategy of waiting for her to come to terms with her situation on her own isn’t working. She’s not easing into her life here, she’s just fucking scheming all day.
Worm already sent over the file with the videos of Junior. I’ll show it to her tonight after dinner.
Maybe she’ll want someone to keep her safe at night.
When she got here, I thought her nearness would soothe the constant itch to watch her, but it’s only gotten worse. She wasn’t supposed to take up so much mental space. How can I have a prisoner in my home and feel like I’m not the one in charge?
Because you’re not. You’ve given her too many liberties. You’re being weak and lazy, and you’ll lose her for it.
I stride out of the watchtower and away from the voice that sounds like my dad. I just need to be patient. She’s here now, and I have all the time in the world. Waiting and watching have rarely failed me in the past. I shouldn’t be rash.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, grateful for the distraction.
Dom
Guess who invited themselves over for dinner? Junior’s in the dining room.
An invisible fist crushes my throat as red flashes over my vision.
Alone in the hallway, I stagger like I’ve been thrown onto a sinking ship. I slap the nearest wall to anchor myself while I fight to regain control of my heart rate. Deep breaths, Sal.
I swipe through my phone with jerky movements and exhale. Marisol’s still on the balcony where she was twenty seconds ago.
Giordana
Turi, hurry up. Junior wants to see you and Mari.
Fuck no.
I haven’t caught my breath yet, but I stride through the hallway regardless, sending out rapid-fire texts to Dom and Giordana.
Marisol won’t be joining us for dinner.
Let the staff know to be on high alert.
I give myself one moment to master my face and posture before I enter the dining room.
Junior sits at the head of the table in an impeccably tailored suit, gorging himself on an entire roasted chicken like a medieval king. Giordana watches him uneasily from the corner, along with Davide and Nola. One of Aldo’s men stands at Junior’s back. Mauro. He’s got eyebrows like fat caterpillars and six kids he left in Sicily that he sends money to. I know for a fact he hates Junior. Good.
I sit at the opposite end of the table next to Dom and wait for Nola to load my plate. Dom doesn’t even pretend to eat and instead plays with his knife while he shoots Mauro menacing looks across the table. Mauro stares forward at the wall, sweat shining on his forehead.
Junior exhales loudly and wipes his greasy fingers directly on the tablecloth. In the corner of my vision, Giordana’s eye twitches.
“Thank you, Nola,” I say as she brings a plate of food to me. It slips out of her hand, but I catch it smoothly. She cringes as she retreats back to the corner of the room. To Junior, I add, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I love the way Conchetta roasts her chicken,” Junior says in Italian. He grabs a platter of potatoes and pulls them toward him, picking one out and biting into it like an apple. “How does she get them so crispy? I keep telling you, Turi, one of these days, I’ll poach her away from you, and then you’ll have to come to my place to get some delicious roasted chicken.”
He knows how much I hate when he uses my nickname, Turi.
“Do you have a kitchen now?” I answer in Italian as I slice through the chicken breast on my plate with a knife. Junior lives in a studio apartment above his warehouse in South Shore. He’s got plenty of money, but he prefers to shit in a bucket and eat out of the garbage like a rat.
“Oh, yeah.” Junior considers this as he picks out gristle from his teeth. “Well, you’d be surprised what a person can do when they’re properly motivated.”
How many men did Junior bring with him tonight? He’s not going to take Marisol from me with anything less than a small army, but he might be able to scare her.
Camillo better have had the sense to bring her inside.
“You’ll have to motivate someone else. I pay my staff well, you’d be hard-pressed to get them to leave.”
“Sounds like I’ll have to get a little more creative then, eh?”
That’s one thing I won’t deny. Junior certainly is very creative .
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the girl? Marisol, is it?” Junior asks. He knows full well what her name is. “I already asked Papà. He said once he gets back from his trip, he’ll talk to you about her.”
A thread of apprehension laces up my spine. I can guess Junior’s complained enough that Aldo said he’ll try to get her for him, reaching for the same kind of wanton generosity that gave Matteo his first car and me a full ride to UChicago.
But he can get Junior another strip club if he needs his balls scratched.
Marisol is a complete stranger, a civilian with no real criminal history, who’s stumbled into our organization with a set of highly sought-after skills. How can Aldo not see any other use for her than letting his son have her?
Junior’s only plan is to take her to that warehouse of his.
“Unfortunately,” I say slowly, letting the word linger as I take a sip of water, “that’s not a possibility.”
“Why the fuck not?” Junior snaps, and I allow myself a small smile.
“Because she’s my fiancée.” Once I say it out loud, the puzzle pieces fall into place.
Marriage is the ultimate trump card, especially for Aldo who sends a dangerous man like me after his worst enemies, who still goes to church every Sunday, and who coveted Serafina for years but hasn’t taken her because you never lay hands on another made man’s wife or daughter.
It’s tradition. It’s backward and archaic—and I’m wondering why I didn’t think of it sooner. I won’t have to worry about Junior taking Marisol.
He can’t take her, she’s yours, says the voice in my head that sounds like my dad, but before my conscience can murmur its protest, Junior bursts into a crazed laugh. “You fucking liar! You just don’t want me to have her, admit it!”
Dom leans to my side to show me a message on his phone.
Camillo
Marisol escaped. She’s in the forest now, but I have men after her.
“Let him know I’ll handle it,” I say to Dom.
Camillo will be punished for this.
So will Marisol. I warned her before that if she tried to run, I’d catch her. Now she’s going to learn I’m the kind of man who keeps his word. Even with her head start, I’ve seen her run on the treadmill at her apartment gym—she won’t get far.
I stand, letting my napkin fall over my plate. “Excuse me,” I say. “Something came up. Dom will see you out.”
A rare expression of canniness crosses over Junior’s face. “Lady troubles, Turi? When you get tired of fucking her, be a pal and let me get a taste, huh?”
As I stride away, Junior’s civil facade snaps, and he screams after me, “You better not be lying, Turi! Papà’s gonna gut her like a fucking fish if you’re lying!”