“Rarely do I change my mind,” he said. “I usually get it right the first time.”
A minute or two later, he turned onto a crude road that was about a mile long with woods on both sides. He was flying, gravel cracking and popping underneath the tires. At the end of the trail, another set of gates opened as his car got close. He sped through the opening before they closed with aclankthat shimmied the metal.
“Private entrance?”
“The perks.” Then he turned on the stereo system from the steering wheel. Frank Sinatra sang, “My Way.”
Maybe I was imagining things, but for a man who was about to disavow, earning a death sentence, he seemed almost…chipper. What surprised me even more, he started to hum the song underneath his breath, singing occasionally (in Italian) as the woods around us zipped past in a blur.
He’d taken my hand after we’d dropped Bambina off, keeping it in his for the entire drive, and every so often, he’d kiss my wrist, right over my pulse. The closer we came to Club D, he seemed to be doing it more often, inhaling the scent of my skin even longer after his lips lingered.
“Are you drunk?”
His eyes connected with mine for a brief second before he roared with laughter. “Rarely do I get drunk,” he said when he had control of himself.
“Rarely do you change your mind. Rarely do you get drunk. Do you have any fun at all?”
“Only with you,” he said, kissing my hand.
In that moment, I realized how cold my skin was compared to his. His temperature was running warm, which matched his mood. He was relaxed, at ease, more comfortable than I’d ever seen him. There was something in the air that I couldn’t deny had me feeling a little…lighthearted too.
The possibility of freedom was on the horizon.
He pulled up to a little cabin set in the middle of nowhere. I could only tell what it was because there was a small gas light burning on the outside. After putting the car in park and turning the lights out, Aniello reached over me and into the glovebox. He pulled out what looked like a red lace garter.
“Lift your foot,” he said.
I did, and he leaned over, slipping the garter over my heel, skimming up my leg, until he reached my thigh, and his finger went around it really slow. I breathed in deep at his touch, and it trembled out of my mouth. Goosebumps puckered my skin and I shivered.
“Always so responsive,” he murmured to himself, moving his hand.
The garter was much tighter than I thought it was going to be. On closer inspection, it wasn’t a regular garter at all, but a holster.
Reaching into the glovebox once more, he pulled out a handgun. He showed it to me, turning it left and then right, and then tucked it into the garter holster.
“I don’t care who it is,” he said, looking me in the eye. “If they don’t tell you something only you and I would know, shoot the motherfucker dead.Capisci?”
I nodded.
“Even then,” he said, sliding his hands into my hair, pulling my face closer. “Never trust one hundred percent.”
When I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his, he yanked my head back.
“Tell me you understand,” he said in Italian.
“I understand,” I repeated in the same language.
“No matter what,” he said, holding my hair a little tighter. “If I say run, you fucking run. Follow the plan.”
I tried to nod but couldn’t. His hold on me was too tight.
“If I’m worried that something might happen to you, I can’t take care of myself.”
“I’ll run if you tell me to.”
He shook his head. “You won’t. Not unless you swear on something you love, Rosalia.”
“Why would I stay?” I whispered.
