Chapter Four Tom
Chapter Four
Tom
I woke up feeling fresh as a daisy the next day.
Nothing ever penetrated the armor of my put-together exterior. Nothing of the romantic sort, at any rate. And Enzo, while enticing and annoyingly attractive, wasn’t going to disrupt years of calculated numbness.
I worked hard in order to achieve, no—earn the ability to keep the world at an arm’s length, and never let anything or anyone rattle my core.
The only pesky, completely controllable inconvenience was that my cock kept twitching as I made myself my bulletproof coffee at four forty-five in the morning, but I ignored it. I would take care of this minor issue once I ticked all the boxes of my morning routine.
After slipping into my prepared workout clothes, folded neatly on my bedroom’s ottoman, I took the elevator down to the building’s gym. I lived in a skyscraper, in an apartment owned by a company I incorporated to cover my tracks.
I did a quick forty-minute strength training session, followed by ten minutes of conditioning and twenty minutes of intense cardio.
From there, I went upstairs, shaved, hopped into the shower, took care of my not-so-little Enzo problem, came on the granite shower wall, cleaned it up, and donned my Monday suit, which happened to be my favorite—a Prada.
At six thirty, I started prepping food for the week, cramming foiled salmon into the oven, sweet potatoes into the microwave, and tossing some premade salads. I slipped sugarless trail mix into small Ziplocs, and made chia seed and yogurt mix to put in the fridge.
As I was preparing my meals for the week, I called my grandmother to keep her company. She always woke up at six to feed her cats and water her ten thousand plants.
“Grams.” I allowed my Staten Island whine to slip through. She would never accept the stony, remote version of me, and didn’t deserve it. “What’yous upta today?”
“Thomas,” she tsked, and I heard the sound of dozens of wailing felines begging her for food. Jean Rothwell had a bit of a hoarding problem. Only it was stray cats she was collecting, as opposed to junk. “When am I seeing your face again?”
“Soon.”
“Soon, my hide. It’s been five weeks.”
“Been slammed with work, but I plan to stop by on Sunday. Take you to church.”
“If I’ll agree to be your date.”
“Oh, you’ll be my date, Jean Margaret Rothwell. We both know my coming to church is the ultimate sacrifice and declaration of love.”
I’d grown up agnostic and crossed the line to atheist after two tours overseas.
The shift between a noncommitted believer to a rejecter of any form of higher existence happened in the space of those tours, and the sights I’d seen in both.
But the final nail in the metaphorical coffin was losing the only thing to make me happy after surviving two wars and abusive parents.
The first tour I did was the initial surge in Iraq.
By then I was in my midtwenties and a part of the A-team long enough to be appointed to extremely delicate tasks.
I saw some shit, lost some friends, and came home hardened and rough around the edges.
During my second tour, I did a village stability op in Afghanistan, working alongside the Afghan special forces.
This time, I saw a lot worse. All throughout, I wondered how people clung to their unshakable faith.
I suppose religion brought comfort and solidity in a world that was ruthless toward everyone, no matter how innocent and vulnerable.
I rejected any hope that promised, but would never materialize into, a happy ending.
By the time I was discharged from the army, I was an ODA—Operational Detachment Alpha—unit commander of twelve Green Berets.
I was also so thoroughly disheartened by humanity as a concept, the only career path I considered viable was locking away bad guys.
Counterterrorism was my first choice, but organized crime was where help was needed, more specifically from someone with my skill set, so this was where I’d ended up in the bureau.
I had a rigid set of morals and ethics, which was how I knew the encounter with Vincenzo Ferrante was a moment of brief insanity. Not to be repeated, and not to be shared with the world.
“Make it a church date and lunch, and I might think about it,” my grandmother negotiated on the other end of the line. My lips almost quirked up as the oven beeped and I extracted the salmon tray, letting it cool off on the stovetop.
I tugged off my oven mitts, neatly folding them back into a drawer. “Fine. But wear something nice, Grams. I have high standards.”
“Speaking of those impossible standards of yours, are you seeing anyone?”
She knew the answer to that question, because it’d remained the same for the past eight years. “No.”
“Well, you should. You’ve only given me one grandbaby, and he’s in middle school. I want more, and I want you to settle down with a nice boy or girl.”
“Nice boys or girls won’t have me, Grams. I’m too damaged for them.”
“Oh, nonsense. Just say the word and I’ll find you a—”
“This conversation is over. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“What about Kathlyn Gaynor’s daughter? She just got divor—”
“Good for her. People suck.”
“Oh! Jill McKenna’s son is single and looking for—”
“Grams, he is twenty-three!”
“What’s wrong with twenty-three? Age is just a number.”
“I’m not in the market for anything serious.”
“You bet your boots you are. You’re just waiting for the right person to come along. They should hurry up. You’re not getting any younger.”
I glanced at my watch, suppressing a groan. I lost all my patience for the day, and it wasn’t even eight in the morning.
“See you Sunday, Grams.”
I turned my work phone on as I slid into my Audi and popped my seat belt on. I’d forgotten to check it when I woke up, but that hardly mattered, because anyone who needed me urgently knew my private number.
An explosion of text messages detonated on my screen, the bubbles sliding in quick succession.
I reared my head back, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The first text had come through at two thirty in the morning.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Hiiiiiiii
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Don’t ask me how I got your number.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Okay, I’ll tell, but only because you’re twisting my arm. I asked Tierney to send me a pic of your business card.
Tierney was his sister-in-law, and a woman I’d previously tried to recruit to turn on the Ferrantes.
She was the closest I’d ever gotten to imprisoning the brothers.
Ultimately, though, she chose staying loyal to the crime family.
Specifically to Achilles, a.k.a. the one who didn’t bother masking his psychopathy.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: So…about last night…
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: That was fun, right?
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I wouldn’t mind doing it again.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I can still taste you in my mouth.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Was that cinnamon gum I detected? I hope it was sugar-free. I’m cutting carbs.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Anyway…next time you stalk me you should come say hi
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: You definitely cleared up a lot of my confusion.
More messages incoming. Jesus, he was typing as I read. It wasn’t even eight in the morning and he’d already said more words than I exchanged with people I worked twelve hours a day with.
I shouldn’t have saved his ass.
Interfering in mobster feuds was like a National Geographic photographer saving a zebra from a lion in the African wilderness.
No point in delaying nature from taking its course.
Survival of the fittest was the rule out there, and if the Camorra’s enforcer was dumb enough to get his dick sucked in an alleyway, banged in the center of Manhattan by some random, it was only a matter of time until he got killed.
What was I thinking, killing that idiot, who I bet both my balls wasn’t actually named Cash?
If this went sideways, I could lose my job, and possibly get into a shit ton of legal trouble. Not to mention kiss that counterterrorism transfer goodbye.
More messages flashed down my screen.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Look, I figured you wouldn’t be caught dead socializing with me, and I’m totally on board with casual.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: And we don’t have to talk about work when we hook up. It’ll be strictly about sex, then we can go back to hating each other.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Like Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Ever watched the movie? That was Brad Pitt in his PRIME.
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I mean, not that I wouldn’t tap that today, but…
Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Sidetracking. Anywho. So, yeah. Text me. Or…give me a call, since old people like that shit better. You have my number now.
Astonishingly, he was typing even more.
He was so sloppy I couldn’t believe I still hadn’t nailed his ass. Professionally speaking, of course.
The man-child had no social decorum whatsoever.
Who taught him blowing up people’s phones like that was acceptable?
I wasn’t gonna find out, because I had too much work and not enough fucks to answer the clown.
Tapping the screen, I blocked his number before slipping my sunglasses on and revving the car.
And started another day with the sole purpose of putting Enzo Ferrante in prison.