That was good enough for me, since the only thing mine was good for was hurting. I wished this Marzio Fausti would find me and take it out, like something inside of me I didn’t need.
After that, I became obsessed—readpassionate—about who he was. I wasn’t sure if I’d find anything, but I checked my local library for any information on him. I’d fallen down a dark rabbit hole filled with enough history to fill numerous books. There weresomany Faustis, and they were the most interesting family I’d ever read about. I clipped pictures and made cards with stats for each member, like baseball cards. I’d even laminated them.
A week or two later, I’d arrived at the door of Vice City Press again with my arms full of books about the Fausti family, my collection of cards, and an insatiable curiosity.
Recently, I’d asked Edna why she allowed me back inside—looking like a drowned rat in the pouring rain—all my things pressed to my chest, trying to save what was suddenly so important to me.
“You showed potential even back then,” she’d said. “Fate brought you here, and I decided to keep you where you belonged.”
She gave me an outlet, a place to channel all my energy and passion. She kept me off the streets and out of trouble for as long as she could. But this job had to get physical. I had to make contacts and gain trust.
It didn’t take me long to do both, and before either of us knew it, Vice City Press had become my home. Most of the time, my office was where I woke up in the morning and went to sleep each night. Everything I needed was there.
And every day, I moved closer and closer to my purpose: finding the Fausti family, specifically Marzio’s line, and learning everything about them that books couldn’t tell me. I wanted them to absorb me into their fold and keep me there, a part of the monster’s body.
An invisible vein pulled me forward with the thought. I dodged a cluster of people trying to fit themselves and the building into their photos, then climbed the steps. When I reached the massive entrance, I dug in my secret pocket and pulled out the picture of Rosaria Caffi, her image soaked in blood. I stared at it a minute before I put it back and pulled out my electronic keycard.
The door beeped, and I pushed it open. Just as it was years ago, the place was alive. People hustled and bustled, all with a clear purpose—acquire information and report on it. Underneath it all, the smell of ink still lingered from long ago.
Even though I got lost in the chaos as I moved toward my office, I was completely found and at home.
My office was my sanctuary.
The walls were slate gray, my desk black, and surrounding me was a collection of pictures of the Fausti family. Even my cat, Hoffa, was lounging on my small sofa, as chill as she could be.
Before Sonny had been attacked, Lilo had convinced him to rent out his house and live someplace smaller. Lucila thought Hoffa would be happier with me. Sonny wasn’t a cat person. He wasn’t even a people person. I could tell Hoffa was loving her new digs already. She was basking in the sun’s rays from my window, licking her paws like the predator she was. I was glad Edna agreed to let me keep her in my office.
I gave her a quick scratch behind the ears, fed her, cleaned her litter box, and then opened a cabinet I had stocked with personal items. I grabbed my shower caddy and some clean clothes from the two racks with wheels I had pressed against the wall, then headed toward the showers.
Vice City was fully equipped. It was almost like a city unto itself. There were times when two families would be at war, going to the mattresses, and the journalists covering it would get less sleep than they did. Giannini had prepared for everything.
On my way, Neil Clarke stopped me. He was another journalist and, inside and outside of work, one of the few I called friend. His husband, Andrea Ricci, was an editor. They both practically lived here too.
Behind his stylish black spectacles, his bright blue eyes took me in. “Shower essentials. Blood on your shoes. What happened?”
Neil dabbled in all crime, just like me, but he was especially intrigued by both the Irish and Armenian mafias. There was nothing I could tell him about either that he didn’t know. Except for this.
“Off the record—for the time being?”
He nodded.
“I believe the Fausti family stole Tigran’s heart this morning.”
He stared at me for a second or two, then blinked and fixed his glasses, which were straight on his nose. “Are you sure it wasn’t a copycat?”
I shook my head. “Yes.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I just know.” The proof was in my locker. The bloodied picture of Rosaria Caffi that was in Tigran’s walletbeforehe was killed.
“Damn.” He took his glasses off and scrubbed his eyes. “He was one of the best bosses the Armenians ever had. Fair but still ruthless. It’ll be interesting to see who takes his place.” He studied my face and then set his hand on my shoulder. He looked around once, and noting no one else was around, said, “He was your sister’s uncle-in-law. I’m sorry, Peps.”
Edna, Neil, and Andrea called me Peps after my pseudonym,Pepper Nash. Because of the nature of our work, we all had them. Edna was fiercely protective of our real names. She was the only one who knew them. Even Edna had one, writing under the name Ed Ninni.
My sister even assumed Edna was a guy. I didn’t correct her because less was always more with Lucila—she worried too much. Edna had told me that when she’d started working, it was easier to write under a guy’s name, since they were more respected in journalism back in the day.
Neil and I had exchanged our real names since we were so comfortable with each other. We traded information a lot and had a relationship outside of work.
