“She is okay,fratello,” Romeo whispered. “She is having fun.”
I nodded once and then slipped my phone from the table.Skirt, I texted her.
On, she texted back.
You’re going to pay for that.
I’m counting on it.She followed the comment up with a yellow face that winked at me.
I took Juliette’s page to Scarlett’s. She and Bacchi were messing around in a video, dancing to “Love Is Strange,” by Mickey & Sylvia.Reposted from Bacchi, the post said.A hard day in the studiowas the caption at the bottom.
Romeo snatched his phone from me before I shattered it to pieces.
She was my wife, and I was obsessed with her. I stalked her page, creeping around like a motherfucking madman.
I was losing my fucking mind.
“Your real love sparks more interest than the two of them,” Romeo said, keeping his phone closer to Guido.
“My face is made of glass lately,” I said.
Romeo shook his head and laughed.
The steak and eggs I had just eaten was good enough, but the food felt as hard as rocks in my stomach. It wasn’t just the pictures, but life in general. I knew it was about to change. Scarlett felt it, too.
The tiredness doesn’t feel entirely physical.
Which was why I’d held back—how could I tell her Ettore was tracking us again when she felt so drained already? She still had nightmares about me surrendering to Spataro, of how she found me, beaten and bruised, on the verge of having my heart ripped out of my chest.
Ettore wanted me, not her. But what lengths would he go to get to me? He was a boar out in the wild, grunting and banging his head up against the tree we were in.
Nemours was another wild card. He was a rat that lived in the sewers. I knew from past experience he wasn’t an easy kill. He wanted my wife, alive and ready to dance for him, at his will. He was still at large. We couldn’t find him.
I corrected my earlier opinion of myself. Nemours was a stalker, an obsessive madman. Just the thought of him made a cold hand slide up my neck and turn my blood to ice. Then my temper burst through, filling me with hot rage.
I threw the napkin in my hands down on the table and stood, going for the jukebox in the corner. Mitch came to stand beside me and began flipping through the pages full of songs.
I’d been standing there, staring.
He slipped in a few coins, the box lit up, and he made his selection. He started snapping his fingers, bobbing his head. Then he closed his eyes, lip-syncing the song, “Karma Chameleon,” by Culture Club. I had to look at the jukebox to get the name of the song and artist.
Mitch opened his eyes, held open his arms, and smiled at me. “Lighten up, Fausti. You woke up breathing today. That has to count for something, right?”
He was resilient. I’d fucking giving him that.
A young waitress went to pass, but Mitch took her by the waist and spun her around.
“Hello,” she said, laughing. She had a southern accent, which was probably why she hadn’t smacked him.
“Hi.” He smiled at her. Then he started to move her around the diner to the tempo of the song.
“Is that a roll of coins in your pocket?” She grinned. “Or are you just happy to see me, handsome?”
“Both.” He dipped her.
I turned my face back toward the jukebox. Instead, the window behind the machine seemed to suck me out of it. A woman moved along the pavement, close to a man. So subtle that it was almost unnoticeable, she shoved at him from the side.
Her hair was thick, long, and auburn, a slight wave to it. The coat over her shoulders covered her past her skirt, her legs covered in black stockings.
