Chapter 24
Casey
Here’s the thing about life: it keeps going.
Even if you want it to stop. Even if you want it to slow down.
Life keeps on marching along.
Offices are like that too. Days blend into each other. They become one big blob of corporate hallways and bland carpeting.
For some reason, I feel safer at work, sitting at my desk, right outside the office of Boss Bastard, my husband, and my stalker.
Mostly because I know he’s not going to show up here for a little while.
But little gifts start to show up. There’s a necklace one morning.
A new travel coffee mug the next. Flowers on the third day.
Those go straight into the garbage. But more get delivered an hour later and I decide to keep them since they’re nice and it isn’t their fault they got sent by a total asshole.
It’s like he knows me better than I know myself.
I love everything he sends—and it pisses me off that he gets me so well.
I don’t actually have work to do. For the first couple of days, I sit at my desk, scroll on my phone, and pretend like I’m busy when someone walks past.
Until I slowly start to process the shitshow my life’s become.
More gifts. A pair of shoes. Lacy underwear. That’s fucking bold of him. A gift card to a boutique purse shop near the office. I spend that one in about ten seconds. Earrings, a few bracelets, and finally, a black diamond-studded choker.
I know he’s trying to win me over, but a bunch of shiny crap isn’t going to cut it.
Instead of wallowing, I decide to be productive.
I call Sheila on the fourth day and grill her about my parents.
I get every single name I can of anyone who might’ve known them back in the day.
I go online and start searching for information on Senesi, the Butcher of Milan, and there are a lot of rumors but nothing concrete.
I dig hard right through the weekend, dredging up old associates that either worked for or with my parents.
I want to find someone who might be able to help with my nightmarish situation.
If I can take care of Senesi then I’ll have leverage.
“Hello? Is this Marco Russo?” I lean back in my chair that Monday morning. It’s early and the office is still quiet. I haven’t gotten any presents from Declan yet, and he was away all weekend. It was the ideal situation.
“Yes, this is him.” The man’s voice is scratchy and slow like he’s pondering every syllable. “Who’s calling?”
“Hello sir, my name is Casey Brennan. I was calling because you might’ve known my parents.”
There’s a short pause. Then gritty laughter. “Is this a prank? Are you really little Casey Brennan?”
“No prank, sir.” My stomach does an excited twist. I haven’t gotten anyone on the phone yet, but this man seems to recognize me.
I found his name in an old business listing as someone associated with a small company my parents used as a front.
“I’ve been trying to hunt down anyone who might’ve known my parents back in the day. ”
Another laugh. He sounds like a smoker. “And you somehow came across me? Incredible, just incredible. Yes, dear, I knew your parents quite well. I remember you as a little spitfire of a toddler.”
“I’m sorry if this is rude, but I’m honestly sort of taking a stab in the dark here. How exactly did you know them?”
“Tell you what. Let’s have lunch this afternoon. There’s a diner called Sal’s Corner on Amsterdam Avenue. I think the number’s 247. You meet me there and I’ll talk all about your parents.”
“Really? That would be incredible.”
“Casey Brennan. Little Casey. Unbelievable. Your parents were great people, Casey, and I’m so sorry for what happened to them. But we’ll meet at eleven-thirty, how’s that sound?”
“I’ll see you there, Mr. Russo.”
“Stick with Marco. See you soon, Casey.”
The diner’s old but surprisingly nice. It’s not too crowded as I step in through the front.
The real lunch rush should get going soon, and I figured we’ve got a half hour of relative privacy before the place gets packed.
We’re on the Upper West Side and I’ve probably passed this spot a dozen times over the years but never stopped inside before.
I linger, feeling uncomfortable. I don’t know what Marco Russo looks like.
I tried to look him up after we got off the phone, but there aren’t any pictures of him online, or at least none that make sense.
I’m about to turn around and get out of there when a small, older gentleman half stands from a booth in the back and waves to me.
He’s in his late sixties with thinning gray hair and pale skin.
His eyes are sunken, but they seem friendly enough.
He’s in an older-style suit, something wool and loose-fitting, and I’d never have looked at him twice if we were out on the street.
“It’s very good to meet you again, Casey,” he says, shaking my hand limply.
He coughs, hacking and low, before gesturing for me to sit.
There’s already coffee waiting. “Are you hungry? Order anything you like. It’s on me. ”
“Thank you, Marco, but let me pick up the bill. I’ve been trying to find anyone who might’ve known my parents. You’re the first one who would actually talk to me.”
He laughs that smoker’s grunt again. “No surprise there. Your parents were good people, but they had some unsavory friends.”
“Yourself not included?”
“Oh, no, dear, in those days I was about as unsavory as they get.” He beams at me. His teeth are crooked and yellow.
I order a club sandwich and he gets soup. When the waitress leaves, Marco talks about my parents glowingly. “Always looking for the next adventure. Always growing themselves. You were there, running around between their legs, as they hatched new schemes and grew their business.”
“What kind of business was it, exactly?”
“This and that.” He laughs and quickly changes the subject. “Your mother had an amazing sense of humor. Just the funniest woman in the world.”
As we eat, he keeps talking. But I start to notice something odd.
He’s never specific.
When I ask about dates, times, events, he waves a hand and changes the subject. When I press him for details, he glosses over everything. I start to wonder if I made a terrible mistake, at least until the waitress takes our empty plates and he sits back with his third cup of coffee.
“We should probably talk about the end.” He says it so simply, but it startles me.
“You know about what happened to them?”
“Everyone did.”
“What can you tell me about… Senesi?”
His face twitches. He looks sideways, jaw tightening. “The Butcher of Milan,” he murmurs. “Always thought it was an absurd nickname, but I suppose it fit. Senesi was a real psychopath in those days. Everyone was terrified of him… including your parents.”
“What did they do to him?”
“I don’t know too many details. But from what I understand, there was an investigation into Senesi’s activities.
The Feds were circling him and somehow your parents got caught up in their dragnet.
They flipped on him, gave the Feds some evidence, pointed them in the right direction, even agreed to testify.
But before the Feds could catch him, the Butcher disappeared.
Nobody knows what happened, only that he hasn’t been seen in the States in over twenty years.
And only a few days after he went on the run… your parents ended up dead.”
I let that sink in. I knew it was Senesi who did it. But hearing Marco confirm the story sends a new wave of grief through me.
“They were trying to take him down,” I say softly. “They were doing the right thing.”
“I told you. They were good people.”
“But he killed them for it.”
“Senesi was a monster, but he’s been gone for a long, long time, dear. I’m sorry for what happened to them. I always thought they didn’t deserve it. But here we are.” He gives me that ugly, crooked smile again.
I manage to pay for lunch. We stand and walk out together. Marco has a limp and shuffles slowly. I hold the door and we pause on the sidewalk. Cool wind blows through my hair and Marco turns to look down the block with a slight frown. There’s nobody else nearby but the two of us.
“I appreciate you meeting with me,” I tell him and offer a hand.
He looks back and takes it. “The pleasure is mine, Casey.” His grip is tighter this time.
He holds on and doesn’t let go. The sparkle in his eye fades as he stares at me and I get a strange feeling in my stomach.
“I have to admit something to you. I feel so very bad about it. But I lied to you in there.”
I try to pull my hand back, but his grip is iron. “Lied about what? Don’t worry, it’s totally fine.”
“Your parents. They weren’t good people.
Honestly, they were sanctimonious fucking pricks.
Especially your pretentious fucking father.
That cock-sucking pansy thought he was better than everyone around him.
But your mother, she was beautiful. Just like you are.
Your mother was perfection, Casey. She deserved better than your fucking father. ”
“What… what are you…” I try harder to wrench away. But Marco doesn’t budge. “Why are you saying that?”
“She was wrong. She was always fucking wrong. Your father acted like he was better than me. Like he was better than everyone. But they were both criminals, just like me. I wanted to lift your mother up, but your father, he was going to bury her in filth.”
“You’re hurting me.” I finally manage to rip my hand away. “What’s the matter with you?”
His eyes are cold and dead. There’s no life in him suddenly.
“God, you really are such a stupid bitch. I can’t believe you’re really her daughter. The fact that I haven’t sent you to hell with your worthless fucking father a long time ago is a stain on my honor. I can’t believe Declan Whelan gives a fuck about a pathetic bitch like you.”
I take a step back.
Cold, black horror fills me.
And I realize who Marco Russo really is.
He lunges for my throat, but I’m already turning and running for my life.