Chapter Thirty-Four Tom
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tom
The day after Enzo came to visit, I finally processed all the paperwork for the Camorra informant. Met the guy, took his statements, and got the ball rolling to finally seal the Ferrante case.
“Took you long enough.” Zeke popped his bald head inside my office, sauntering in without an invitation as per usual. “I was starting to get worried you forgot about it.”
“Didn’t forget about it. Just wanted to be thorough, as always.” I plucked the Ferrante file from my desk, leafing through it as I made my way to the communal kitchen. “It took me exactly the same time as it did the last time I recruited an informant.”
Zeke was at my heel. “Does he seem reliable to you?”
“As reliable as a mobster with blood on his hands can be,” I muttered. “It helps that he’s not Camorra-affiliated. More of a chance we can protect him once this goes to trial.”
“Is it enough to get the brothers in prison for life?”
“If it goes according to plan? Doubt they’ll see daylight again.”
My grandmother always said we leave a piece of our soul in everything we do. I had a nagging feeling the next thing I was about to do would forsake the whole damn thing.
“You know, handing over the Ferrantes on a silver platter to the director might just be your golden ticket to the counterterrorism department.” We both stopped by the fridge, which I threw open to take out my lunch.
“Keep talking dirty to me like that, Maddox, and I just might put out.” I shoved Tierney’s leftovers into the microwave and punched two minutes on the timer.
The food wasn’t in my preplanned list of dishes I deemed acceptable. Then again, not much had been planned nor acceptable since Enzo bulldozed his way into my life. Or, more accurately, since I barged into his.
“What’s the game plan?”
“The Bratva is planning to get a drug shipment under the Ferrantes’ nose. They have no idea the Ferrantes know about it and plan to raid the operation. Kill, maim, confiscate. The whole nine yards. We’ll make sure we’re there to catch them red-handed,” I told him.
Zeke whistled low. “Will all three brothers be in attendance?”
“Without a doubt.” I tried to ignore the nagging prickle in my chest.
I hadn’t lied to Enzo. I had taken a few days to figure out how to execute my deal with my Camorra informant. I’d been pressed to the mat for far too long, and it was time to take action. But now that I’d made my choice, I wasn’t backing out.
It was going to cost me my soul, yet I knew it was the right thing to do.
“By the way.” Zeke leaned a shoulder against one of the cabinets, crossing his arms nonchalantly. “Denise is still asking about that dinner you owe us.”
“Anytime, anywhere.” I kept my gaze glued to the microwave.
“And the keys to the Lake George house?” Zeke asked.
“Put them on your desk a week ago. Did you not see them?”
“I saw them. I just didn’t find the thank-you note underneath.”
That’s because I didn’t write one, and he damn well knew it. I ripped my gaze from the microwave, and we engaged in a silent stare-off.
“Thank you,” I said finally.
He nodded in satisfaction. “I forgot to ask who you brought over.”
“You didn’t forget.” I smiled, thinking Enzo would be proud of the unprompted facial expression. “You knew I’d never tell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Cheese rolling from the hilltops. That Gloucester cheddar is pretty heavy.”
He laughed. “Is it serious?”
“Nah.” The microwave beeped, and I took the plate out. “Just a little something to pass the time.”
“You don’t usually take little somethings on weekends. Let alone on your birthday,” Zeke pointed out. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, and I won’t have to treat you like a liar.”
He was right that trying to bullshit my FBI superior was a rookie mistake, but I wasn’t inclined to give more details about my current flame.
For one thing, it could get him—and me—killed.
For another, I would never betray Enzo’s confidence when it came to his sexuality. It was the one line I wouldn’t cross.
I looked up at Zeke, dripping indifference and serenity. “I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. Yes, he is special to me. But no, it isn’t serious in any way. He has other attachments, and as you well know, so do I.”
“No, Tom, you don’t have any other attachments.” Zeke leaned close to my face, until I saw the black of his pupils. “Matt is dead. Has been for a long while. Move on.”
“I have.”
“Have you? Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like you’ve replaced him with something else you can never have.”
He was out of the kitchen before I delivered a scathing comeback.
Just as well, as I didn’t have one.
Matt’s eighth death anniversary was hardly a cause for celebration, but surprisingly, it didn’t hit me as hard this year.
I did visit his grave. I had also taken Iris and Silas out for a bite and bought her a new washing machine.
The old one broke down constantly, and fixing it every other month cost more than replacing it altogether.
I took care of the things Matt cared about the most. Still prioritized Silas’s birthday party, which was celebrated earlier this year for logistical purposes, and attended the stuffy bowling event.
I even got him the new bike he wanted. I supported Matt’s legacy in any way possible.
However, I could no longer pretend his being dead was a good excuse for my not living.
I hadn’t lied to Enzo.
When I made love to him the other day, it wasn’t Matt I was thinking about. It was the very thing I knew I’d be doing the next day—sealing the deal with the informant, and thereby, Enzo’s fate.
And I was completely forthcoming about our sexual chemistry, too. Matt and I had been good. But Enzo and I… We were something else. They had yet to invent a word for what we were.
Whatever that word might be, I was about to lose it when Enzo found out what was going on. But for the here and now, I still had him.
We settled into a nice routine. Every day after work, I went to see him or vice versa. We slipped through back doors, met in dingy alleyways, and made sure to never be seen or caught.
I was in the office, clearing up some admin work before meeting him, when I decided to check his Instagram. I still checked his socials once a day, but now only as a form of entertainment.
Sliding a finger over the screen, I realized I was holding my breath.
He’d posted a new photo to his Instagram grid.
The time stamp showed thirty-nine seconds since he posted it.
Fine. Perhaps I didn’t check his Instagram once a day. More like once a minute.
His tags, too.
Who the fuck tagged a private, hot man they didn’t know, anyway? People had no boundaries these days.
I drank in the vision of him, a mixture of excitement, joy, and sickening jealousy taking over me. Each time he posted something on Instagram, it felt like a personal slight against me, because he was sharing himself with the world when he should only belong to—
Stop. Don’t fucking finish it. Not even in your head.
It was a close-up of Enzo’s crotch—with his sweatpants on, thank God—and his tattooed hand holding a very prominent outline of his huge, erect cock. The happy trail of straight, thin pubes and his veiny, muscled lower abs peeked through the photo. I gulped every bit of it like it was oxygen.
The black Gothic butterfly tattoo on the back of his hand.
The golden pinky ring and the forefinger ring with the skull on it.
I dragged my eyes to the caption, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline.
My boo doesn’t want this . Any takers?
#letmein #freewilly #ipromiseillbegood
My breath shortened, and I felt my ears heating.
He wanted to fuck me this bad?
How could I be so opposed to something I hadn’t even tried?
And…did I really have a choice?
I wanted to keep him as long as I could.
At any cost.
And if it took getting fucked to achieve my objective, I’d do it.
With a groan, I opened our chat box. I wanted to call him, hear his voice, but it was too risky.
Me: You’re a pain in the ass.
Butterfly: If this isn’t an invitation to fuck you, I don’t know what is…
Me: Don’t bask in it.
Butterfly: Wait, is that a yes???
Me: One time. To get it out of your system.
Butterfly: And into yours…
Butterfly: jkjkjkjk.
Butterfly: Also, wow, I see you’re back in your stalker era.
Me: I never left.
Butterfly: The post is a minute old.
Me: Delete the picture.
Butterfly: Why? It’s my best angle.
Me: I never gave you permission to show people my dick.
Butterfly: You mean MY dick.
Me: No, I mean MY dick. That dick is never seeing anyone else again.
Butterfly: Deleted.
Butterfly: So…when and where?
I left him on read, pressing my forehead to my desk and banging it softly.
There was relinquishing control, and then there was boarding a flaming train wreck, and I knew my actions classified as the latter.
Just as I knew casualties would be guaranteed.