Luciano glances at me. “Well that was fun.”
I don’t answer. I’m still fuming over Stefano’s suggestion to take over her “supervision.”
“How are you feeling?” Luciano presses, bringing me from my thoughts.
“Tense,” I reply, though he doesn’t know just how multifaceted my answer is. “Worried.”
“We’ll see this through without any more hitches,” Luciano says. “For Matteo.”
My face darkens. We never say his name. We never talk about him. It hurts too much.
I turn away.
“We’ll get this done,” I agree gruffly.
“You know, the one million Euro offer from Giovanni isn’t all that bad,” Luciano insists. “We can accept it now, pull a bullet in his head, then hers, and get this over with. No need to get greedy.”
I shake my head, again suppressing a surge of anger.No bullets in her head.“We stick to the plan.”
“You’re not getting attached to her, are you?” Luciano asks. “I thought you said she was a teenage crush, nothing more? You’ve been with hundreds of women since.”
And I haven’t loved a single one of them.
“Of course not I’m not getting attached,” I tell him. “She means nothing to me. Why do you think I started this whole operation?”
Luciano nods. “Good. Because the way you answered Stefano there when he asked if you wanted him to take over her supervision seemed a bit rough.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Anyway, have a good night, brother.”
“You too.” I watch him leave, and when he’s gone I slump in my seat.
Maybe I should’ve accepted the one million Euro offer. Why didn’t I? Greed, or something more?
Yes, greed is partly the answer. It always is. But also, I’m not ready to give her up just yet.
I’ve always wanted her. She belonged to me eight years ago. She should belong to me now.
I want to keep her. Yet, am I really going to go against my brothers, who helped me set up this operation? I can’t fuck them out of their share of the ransom.
I can’t keep her.
I get up and make my way to the kitchen. I grab a bottle of bourbon from the bar and fill up a glass, setting it down on a coaster.
Rosa joins me.
“What up?” I ask her, fist bumping.
“Can’t sleep,” she says.
“You and me both,” I agree.
Rosa fetches a glass from the china cabinet and opens the bottom cupboard of the fridge to retrieve a square piece of ice wrapped in tin foil. She drops it into her glass and pours herself some bourbon.
She sits down on the barstool next to me.
“You know, I still don’t know how you make those.” I nod at the perfectly clear ice cube that sits in her glass. “When I make ice, it’s always cloudy. You use distilled water?”
“Nope,” she says. “I told you at one point, I have a special container I use to freeze them.”
“You told me?”
