His knees buckle. I let him fall just long enough for him to hit the pavement, then haul him back up by his shirt.
“You go near her,” I murmur, “and I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.”
He whimpers. “I—I’m sorry?—”
I cut him off with a punch to the gut. He doubles over, choking, spit and snot dripping onto the concrete. He tries to stand. I grab the back of his neck and shove him into the garbage bags stacked by the wall.
He lands hard, hands sinking into torn plastic and old produce.
He pisses himself. The dark stain spreads fast.
Good.
I crouch in front of him. “Make sure you remember this moment. Because if I see you again in New York—just once—you won’t get another.”
He nods, hiccuping on his own breath.
“And if you ever tell anyone why you’re leaving, or who sent you?” I tilt my head. “They’ll never find what’s left of you.”
He breaks down sobbing. What a pathetic excuse for a man. So big last night, with all his threats, and look at him now.
I stand and adjust my coat. “Get up. Get out. Don’t look at this place again.”
He scrambles to his feet and runs. Limping. Half-bent. But fast enough.
Behind me, Valerio steps into the alley, wrinkling his nose. “Smells like he enjoyed that talk.”
“He’ll be gone by tonight,” I say.
“You think he’ll actually leave?”
“Yes.” I watch Gerard disappear around the corner. “He believes me.”
Valerio nods. “If he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he’s never found.”
I pat him on the back. “That’s my consigliere.”
“Just earning my keep, boss.”
I turn back toward the car, my mind already shifting back to the only thing that matters: Savannah. That kiss that was so rudely interrupted this morning.
“Let’s wrap up the rest and head home,” I say.
Valerio smirks. “Back to yourkitten,” he taunts.
I don’t bother denying it.
Because she is. And now nothing—and no one—will touch her again.
9
SAVANNAH
In the kitchen, I lose myself in the motions fast.
I chop onions, prepare ragù, make pasta from scratch. It takes most of the afternoon for the sauce to reach the ideal level of thickness. We never get to simmer it that long at the restaurant. Gerard favors speedy preparations, especially now that it’s become apparent half our clientele do not actually care what they’re putting in their mouths. It’s the one thing we can agree on: how pointless it feels sometimes.
But tonight, it doesn’t feel pointless at all.
