Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
RICCI
When the studio door clicks shut behind me, I walk a little way, then stop on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the late afternoon sun warm on the back of my neck.
I should drive off. I should trust the men I already have watching the block.
But something in my chest won’t let me. I lean against the brick wall across the street, half-hidden by the shadow of an awning, and watch her through the big windows of the studio.
She’s back at her wheel already, head bent, fair hair falling forward as she centers another lump of clay.
I stay there longer than I should, just watching the quiet focus on her face, the small smile that tugs at her lips when the clay starts to rise properly.
She looks… peaceful and happy in a way I’ve never seen in all the years I watched her in Salvatore’s care.
And that sweet peace is exactly why I can’t make myself leave yet.
I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to the two men I have on her detail.
Eyes on her at all times. She doesn’t leave that studio alone. Understood?
The replies come back fast.
Got it, boss.
I slip the phone away, take one last long look at her through the glass, and force myself to walk to the car. The engine growls to life under me, and I’ve barely made it three blocks when my phone starts ringing.
I glance at the screen — one of my capos. My answer is clipped, “What?”
“Boss… we’ve got a situation. There’s been an incident.
The John, one of the local politicians in our books, went crazy on one of the girls.
Fucking bastard, slit her throat. The pimp was one of ours, was waiting outside.
He rushed in and shot the mark. It happened in one of our apartments downtown, so there are witnesses and maybe even tapes from surveillance cameras outside the bakery across the road.
It’s bad. Evening news stuff. The police will want to speak to her pimp. ”
“Fuck,” I mutter, irritation crawling up my spine.
There is a pause on his end, long enough that I can hear the hesitation in the silence. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, careful. “We can give our guy up, boss, but if we do… we can’t vouch for his loyalty. He’s not old school. He could sing.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until the leather creaks under my palms. Giving one of my own men to the cops would send a message I don’t want to send. But leaving bodies and fresh evidence lying around is worse. Sloppy. Dangerous. This is the kind of shit that brings heat we don’t need.
I rub a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my fingers, and feel that familiar weight of a new sin settle heavier in my chest, pressing down until it’s hard to draw a full breath.
Every decision like this pulls me further away from her.
Viola. I can still see her so clearly. Safe in that little studio, her innocent hands covered in blameless clay.
I can protect her. I will protect her. But for how long?
How many more nights like this, how many more calls yanking me into the dark, before the life I’m still living starts to bleed into hers? Before the blood on my hands stains the one clean thing I have left?
“We’re going to have to handle this ourselves,” I say, my voice flat and final, the words tasting like ash.
He mutters a quick, “Understood, boss,” but I can hear the hesitation in it, the way his breath catches like he wants to say more but knows better.
“Which apartment?”
“The yellow one,” he says briefly.
“Whose there now?”
“Antonio and Enzo.”
I hang up without another word, and change direction at the next light, tires cutting smoothly through the evening traffic, and head toward the apartment building.
The building is one of the nondescript brick walk-ups we keep for discreet business — nothing flashy, just quiet enough to handle things no one needs to know about.
I park half a block away and walk the rest. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the faint metallic promise of rain that hasn’t fallen yet.
My shoes scrape softly against the sidewalk as I push through the front door and climb the stairs.
I shouldn’t be here. Salvatore would never do this, but I must. I am not Salvatore.
The smell of old cooking grease and damp carpet fills my nostrils as I take out my master key, insert it into the lock, and turn it.
When I step inside the apartment, the scene hits me hard.
The door to the bedroom is open, and a young woman is naked on the bed, throat cut clean, blood already darkening the sheets into a deep, wet stain that has soaked through to the mattress.
Her legs are splayed open under the cheap overhead bulb.
The smell of sex and copper is thick in the stale air, and it clings to the back of my throat.
The politician, her baby daddy, and one of the most corrupt men on our books is slumped against the far wall with a single gunshot to the chest. His eyes are open and glassy.
Her pimp is kneeling on the floor, hands zip-tied tight behind his back, his face pale and sweating under the harsh light.
Antonio and Enzo are standing guard by the door of the bedroom, looking uneasy, shifting their weight from foot to foot like they know exactly how bad this looks.
I stare at the mess. Thinking.
The pimp’s DNA is all over her, and there’s no way to clean that.
Irritation spikes hot and sharp in my chest, mixing with something darker: disgust, exhaustion, the growing weight of every fucking decision I have to make.
This kind of sloppy, careless shit is exactly what I’ve warned them about for years.
I crouch down in front of the pimp, elbows resting on my knees, the floor cold and sticky under my shoe. I look him dead in the eye. “Haven’t you been told to control yourself?”
He just swallows hard, eyes darting between me and the bodies, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple.
I stand slowly, rolling my shoulders once to ease the tension coiled there.
“Call Michael. Tell him to scrub the place clean. As for the bodies…” A fresh thought occurs to me, and for once I see a silver lining in this mess.
“Take them away but don’t dispose of them.
Store them in the freezer till further instructions.
Whatever complaints there are, as long as there’s no trace or evidence, it never happened. ”
I turn on my heel before anyone can say another word. The door shuts behind me with a quiet click, and I walk back down the dim hallway. On my way I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Leonardo.