“You could have killed him,” Angela says when the front door shuts.
I realize my hands are shaking. Adrenaline hangover.
I glance at the pool of blood on the floor and retrieve several paper towels to clean it up.
“Ishouldhave killed him,” I tell her. “What the hell was he doing touching you?”
“He only wanted me to go back to my room,” she says.
I give her a cross look. “It doesn’t matter. He had specific instructions to stay inside his apartment.”
“Is that why you hurt him so badly?” she asks. “Because he disobeyed yourinstructions?”
“Partly.” I pause. “Actually, I don’t really know. When I saw him touching you, something snapped inside of me. All the anger and hatred I’ve been holding back—the anger and hatred that somehow goes away when I’m with you—it came rushing to the surface. Both of them owe their life to you. If you hadn’t intervened, they’d be dead now.”
I finish cleaning the mess in silence, and then toss the reddened towels into the garbage bin underneath the sink. I wash my hands, which aren’t shaking anymore, then pull up my phone and access the external camera to watch Francesco drive away in his Alfa Romeo. When his vehicle reaches the main road I remotely close the gate.
I go to the hallway and retrieve the envelope of cash and shove it into my pocket.
I wonder how much Francesco is going to reveal to Luciano. Angela told me I was allowing her “free reign” of the house right in front of him.
Fuck.
I go back to the family room. Angela is sitting listlessly on the couch. She’s wiped away the tears from her cheeks, but her eyes are still red.
“Would you have really killed both of those guys if I didn’t tell you to stop?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.
She seems strangely pleased—not about the killing part, I suppose, but rather her ability to stop me.
She suddenly claps her hands. “Well then, it’s time to cook up some lunch.”
She stands up, but I grab her wrist. “Angela, stop. You can’t bottle up what you’re feeling. Tell me.” When she doesn’t answer, I press again. “Tell me.”
She studies me, and I can see the conflict in those eyes of hers, still red from crying. She wants to reveal something important to her, but can’t.
Then the look fades, and I know that whatever words come out of her mouth next won’t quite be what she meant to say.
“I’m a bit upset that you beat him up so badly,” she says. “But I know that darker side of you will always exist. It’s part of who you are. You need to be a fighter in this line of business, cruel and cold at times. I can live with that. I’ve seen my brothers do horrible things, and while it shocks and horrifies me at the time, I get over it. I’m just relieved that you listened to me. It means…”
“Means what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
“Tell me,” I insist.
“It means you’re a good person,” she says quickly, and once again I have the impression she meant to say something else, but I let it slide.
We go to the kitchen and she dives into the bags. I’m under the impression she’s trying to distract herself—that she wants to forget what I did to the caretaker. “Let’s see what we have here. Mm, nice. Chicken. Rice. Bread. Breakfast of champions!”
“Yes, well, chicken and rice are staple foods in my household,” I reply.
“You’re just like my brothers,” she comments. “Their lives revolve around the gym, and the food they need to fuel their workouts. They’re always going on about macros, nutrients, weighing their meals, blah blah blah.” She continues taking out items. “Mm, aubergines, these aren’t bad.” She sets aside the purple eggplants. “Pine nuts. Raisins. Perfect! Now all we need is some vinegar. Please tell me you have some vinegar?”
I open one of the storage cupboards. “Vinegar.” I hand her the bottle.
“Yay!” she cheers. “I’m going to cook Aubergine Caponata for you!”
