“—late.” A woman’s voice in my ear—cultured, high-born Italian. “If you insist on us meeting in the open like this, at least be on time.”
I instantly stopped, feigning interest in a pair of cute heels in a low-lit shop window. According to the GPS signal, the wife was up the street a bit and just around the corner. The wireless symbol glowed on my phone, indicating I was still connected to my laptop and recording the conversation. Perfect.
“Sorry but time was of the essence.” A man’s voice. Somewhat muffled but still discernible. “I wasn’t able to make other”—a pause—“arrangements.”
Unlike the woman, his Italian ran thick with Tuscany—droppedksounds and slurred words, like he was speaking with his mouth full.
“Give me more notice next time.” The wife sounded annoyed. Put out. Which I found . . . interesting. Annoyance and irritation were not emotions usually associated with a clandestine, romantic hook-up.
“You want this or not?” the man replied.
A long silence.
I double-checked to make sure I hadn’t lost the connection. Nope. Still there. I moved away from the shop window, going closer to the corner. Should I take the risk of a visual? I hated not knowing what was going on.
Somewhere a nightingale sang—a lovers’ song of thwarted devotion and longing. Perfect timing. I was intercepting an illicit affair, after all.
Finally, the woman let out a slow breath.
I stopped again, leaning a shoulder against a wall, pretending to check my phone.
“I do want this. But meeting you is risky.” Her tone made it clear she was seriously displeased.
“Yeah, well, it’s gonna cost you more. The boss said it was too dangerous. Too many people are watching the senator and his family, and it has to look like an accident. You still want the whole family gone?”
My entire body froze.
Whoa. What?!
“Yes. The entire family.”
“Even the little ones? Cause that makes some of our people squeamish. That means more resources. Which means you owe us more money.”
My heart leaped into my throat.
Holy crap! Clearly not an affair going on tonight.
I instinctively leaned away from the corner. I had a terrible feeling about conversations like this. They usually involved people who would happily ensure silence with a well-placed bullet.
Thiswas why Enzio steered clear of the mafia.
“Nonsense. You people don’t get uneasy over a little blood. You promised it would be done,” she said. “A lightning strike, you said. It’s the only way.”
My breathing stuttered to a stop.
Her Italian words tumbled through my brain, triggering a landslide of emotions.
Lampo.Flash.
Lightning.
Memories slammed into me with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Trauma does this to you. Finds you at the most inopportune times.
Another night. Another place. A situation completely unrelated to this one. A stumbling figure muttering similar words.
Lightning. Lightning. It’s the only way. Now I see.
Chills chased my spine, goosebumps lurching to attention.
