11. Chapter Eleven—Cassiel #2
I strain to listen to the rustling of her clothing as she discards the sheet and begins to redress. Her answer is spoken through gritted teeth, only serving to amuse me further. “Yes.”
I hum, replanting my feet on the hardwood floor, spreading my legs wide so I can rest my forearms on my corded thighs.
When my shoe catches on something half hidden beneath the bed, I bend to pick it up, only for my fingers to wrap around a lacy scrap of material.
Carlotta’s panties.
I ball them into my fist until a flash of black mesh peeks out between my thumb and thick forefinger.
Smirking to myself, I fix my stare back on the door to room eleven.
“It didn’t look like you had any nightmares last night, Princess.”
I hear Carlotta pause in re-dressing. “No… I don’t think I did.”
“Good.”
The grit of a metal zipper kisses my ears, followed by the sound of bare feet slapping against the flooring as Carlotta rounds the space to stand in front of me.
Straightening my spine, I peer up at her, holding her lacy underwear by my pointer finger.
“You missing something, Princess?”
Carlotta’s green gaze flicks from me to her panties, and back again.
“You can keep ‘em.”
On a choked laugh, I watch her slip her feet into a pair of sky-high heels, boosting her height and tuck her handbag beneath her arm.
She wraps her palm around the golden door handle, twisting it to reveal the empty hallway outside and peers over her shoulder.
“You coming or not?”
Shoving her panties into my jacket pocket beside my gun, I follow Carlotta out into the hallway and down the stairs. I hold the door open for her when we get to the entry way, smiling at her whispered thanks and glancing down to watch her ass sway in her skirt.
“Where you headed after this?”
Carlotta tightens her scarf around her neck, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to ward off the winter chill that surrounds the city. It does no good. I see the tip of her fingertips begin to turn red before she slides them into her cropped puffer jacket coat pockets.
“Home. You?”
I don’t answer her.
“Want me to walk with you? I’m gonna grab a cab, we could share—”
Carlotta shakes her head, effectively cutting me off. “No thank you. You’ve done enough for me. Last night and—” She swallows. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, Cassiel.”
Crossing my arms, I simply nod.
Carlotta is a na?ve little deer if she thinks I’m going to just let her walk back to her apartment, alone and unarmed.
Hasn’t she put two and two together yet and realized that her brother’s death was hardly an accident? His body was carved into, crude, jagged letters cut into his sternum, before he was dumped on the steps of their mother’s home.
Not only that, but not a single fucking security camera feed picked up as sight of Cristiano after 11 p.m. three days before his body reappeared.
The street view cameras dotted along the line of stately homes—of which number one hundred and twelve belongs to Mrs. Bellucci—didn’t pick up a single sighting of a vehicle or passerby.
Rather, the flickering timestamp in the upper left corner jumped from one hour to the next.
Whoever killed Cristiano—and I have no doubt in my mind that he was killed by someone else’s hand—is certainly not a rookie. Clever enough to wipe all traces of their existence tells me one thing; they’ve killed before.
And they’ll do it again.
Raising a hand in farewell, Carlotta smiles at me tight lipped. “See you, then.”
I smile back. “Tuesday. Don’t be late, Princess. Rome doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”
“Rome can kiss my ass.”
“I’ll tell him that, shall I?”
Turning of her heel, Carlotta smirks at me over her shoulder. “Please do.”
I watch her go, the enticing sway of her ass disappearing into the bustling crowds or tourists and shoppers and every day New Yorkers.
One, two, three, four, five…
I count to five in my head, focusing on the sound of my breath—in through my nose, out through my nose—the pounding of my heart in my chest cavity, giving Carlotta a head start before I follow after her.
Zigzagging out of the way of mother’s pushing expensive looking strollers and small dogs on their leashes, their furry little faces poking out of their fur lined jackets, I pick up my pace until finally I spot Carlotta ahead.
She’s looking down at something on her phone, hardly paying attention to her surroundings at all. Silly girl.
I click my tongue in irritation, balling my hands into fists to resist the urge to sprint up to her, bundle her in a cab, take her home and lay her over my knee for being so na?ve.
Careful to keep a safe distance away so as to not spook Carlotta, I watch her cross the road without even bothering to look left or right, unseeing the cab that swerves to avoid plowing into her.
God, this woman.
I swear she’s going to be the death of me.
Half a heartbeat later, I cross the road, ignoring the annoyed honk of a horn. Without so much as a second thought, I turn, smacking my hands down on the bonnet of the gaudy yellow cab.
“Watch where you’re driving, jackass!”
The driver spits a slew of profanities my way through the crack of his open window, but I’m already stalking away, taking a sharp corner and jogging down the sidewalk until the shimmering flame of Carlotta’s fiery red hair dances back into view.
Time slips away from me as I follow her, ducking into corners and alleyways when I get a little too close.
I’m wondering how much further I have to walk and why the fuck doesn’t she just ride the underground, when she eventually turns into a towering block of apartments.
She stops to say something to the homeless man sitting on the corner, blankets and sheets wrapped around himself to ward off the chill, although with the way he’s shivering I don’t think it’s doing much.
I watch Carlotta stretch out her hand, my heart clenching at the sight, catching a glimpse of silver money exchanged before she slips inside her apartment building.
She’s a sweet girl, but still…
She needs to be more careful.
Leaning against a lamppost in front of the granite washed towering apartment block, I fish around in my pocket for my packet of emergency cigarettes and a lighter.
I grin, more to myself than anybody else, when my fingers brush against the lace scalloped edge of Carlotta’s panties, recalling her parting words.
“You can keep ‘em.”
Laughing softly, I strike the lighter, shoving the stick between my teeth and passing the flame over the end until the cherry glows red and I taste the earthy tobacco coating my tastebuds.
It’s a terrible habit, I know. Rome hates it with a passion.
He makes me scrub my hands, my fingernails, and my tongue before he’ll come anywhere near me.
But it’s the only thing I’ve found that helps take the edge off when I’m stressed.
Well, that and shooting somebody, or at least hitting them with a fleshy thud.
Creating a V formation with my middle and forefinger, I pluck the cigarette from my mouth, exhaling the smoke into the air above me. It curls around me like a cat’s tail does around your legs when it’s asking for a scratch; a whisp of white greeting the cold New York air before it disappears.
I tap the ash forming on the end, taking in another heady drag, while I flick my vision across the front facing windows of the apartment, praying one of those is Carlotta’s.
Four inhales of my cigarette later, the tips of my fingers numb with cold, the flesh mottled with red and white spots, I’m finally rewarded for my patience.
A face appears in the window of the eleventh floor, eight in from the left. I squint to make out the messy bun tied on the top of Carlotta’s head, just before she snaps her curtains shut.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I take one last drag, filling my lungs with the addictive nicotine and then I stub out the burning cherry, depositing the charred end of the cigarette in the closest trash can.
I step out into the road, about to put my hand out into the oncoming traffic to flag down a cab before I change my mind.
Spinning on my heel, I dip inside the nearest coffee shop, sighing at the wave of warmth coasting over my exposed skin.
I grab a spot in line, the delicious looking pastries take up space in the glass display counter beside the counter, making my stomach rumble with their sweet smell.
“What can I get you?” asks the bored looking barista when it’s finally my turn.
“Three coffees, please. To go. And I’ll take five of your chocolate and hazelnut croissants, too.”
I swipe my black Amex over the card reader, hardly glancing at the total and following the crowd down to the end of the marble top counter to grab the coffees and pastries.
Goods secured, I slip back out into the freezing cold outside, making a beeline for the homeless man still sitting on the street corner.
“Hot coffee and a croissant,” I mutter, carefully handing each item over to him.
He peers up at me and grins, showcasing three gold teeth. “Thanks. You following her or something?”
I nearly choke on my own sip of too hot coffee, unable to wait for it to cool down to get my caffeine hit. “What?”
“The pretty redhead,” he clarifies, fingers tearing into the pastry. “You following her?”
“Nah.” I shake my head, shoving the bag of croissants under my arm so I can pull out my fake badge for situations exactly like this. “I’m a cop.”
Officer of the New York Police Department displays the blue and gold shiny badge.
“She been bad?” he asks, mouth full.
I nod, pretending to take a drink to hide my smirk. “She’s been a really bad girl. But don’t worry, me and my partner are on it.”