Someone so careful has to be a professional. Someone sent him, and I have a sinking feeling I know who.
I open the drawer where I keep burner phones. I’ll call from home, I decide, not wanting to put the shelter and the people who find refuge here at risk.
I walk home like I don’t knowhe’sfollowing me.
If he wanted to kill me, he’d have done it by the dumpster, at the back of the building, where there was no one, and a cry for help would result in open windows, if there were any, being shut and locked tightly.
This wasn’t the part of town where a gunshot made enough noise to wake anyone up—it was just background.
As I walk, I know what has happened—I’ll have to make certain, of course, but Iknow.
There’s only one reason someone is watching me.
Giuseppe is dead.
When I was a child, I called himNonno, but as I grew up and knew who he was, I stopped. When I left the family, he let me. My uncle would have married me off, but my grandfather let me escape. He protected me.
My uncle, Luigi, was killed a year ago. I’d read that in the Italian papers.
When you are in the mafia, life expectancy is unpredictable, but Luigi lived longer than my father and mother did. They were murdered—I suspect by my uncle, so he could take the mantle of heir—butchered in their beds while I slept two doors away.
I don’t have nightmares about that anymore.
With Giuseppe gone, Remo Morello, his heir, has probably taken over the family business—or as they call it in Italy, theCosa Nostra.
Remo. The name makes my skin crawl.
The man who once wanted to marry me. The man I ran from. The man who vowed to kill me for the insult. The man I know is the reason I’m being followed.
My stomach turns violently.
Madre di Dio.
I’d hoped Remo moved on, that I could finally breathe. But breathing is a luxury that women like me don’t get to enjoy for long.
I go up the stairs in my building; the elevator hasn’t worked for years. I don’t mind. I like my life. It’s quiet. It’s honest. I give—making up for the sins of my father and grandfather.
I drop my bag on the kitchen counter, fill a glass of water, and walk to the window. I look out.
I can feel his presence, so I stay for a while, watching the shadows.
I go to bed without undressing.
I lie on the mattress covered in cheap sheets, my hand around the grip of my Glock under my pillow.
I’ll wake up early so I can make the call to Palermo.
But it’s moot. I don’t expect to sleep.
I hope tomorrow brings no more shadows.
4
THE FILE
LUCIAN
Wannabe Mother Teresa’s file hits my encrypted inbox at 3:07 a.m.
