Ding ding ding, I thought.
He hadn’t taken off his jacket on entry, so he shrugged it off now, not taking his eyes off me. It didn’t take him long to strip off his shirt, and then the tee under it. My only interest was in the presence of a wire, I reminded myself, keeping my gaze under control. But the kid was something to behold, cut along the lines of ancient warriors. He wasn’t a runner, but he certainly was a gym bunny, just like he’d claimed.
He threw the tee aside and held out his arms, turning around once. “Well?”
“All the way,” I said.
“No,” he said shortly.
“You got something to hide?”
“I’d like to hang on to my dignity if I can.”
I shrugged. “Nothing says you won’t.”
His fingers floated to his waistband, hovered there. For a moment, I thought he was really going to do it and my thoughts turned to what Luca D’Amato might have to say about my talking to a federal agent in my own living room.
A naked federal agent, who was about half my age and cute as hell.
But Flynn stopped before pulling open the button of his fly. He shook his head, and grabbed up the tee again, pulling it on while he said, “I must be fucking crazy.” It was a little muffled in the cotton of his shirt as it pulled over his face.
“You seem to think I’m a very dangerous person, yet you followed me through Central Park at midnight. Yeah, I’d say you’re fucking crazy.”
He glared at me again. “Maybe I should charge you with soliciting. What do you think, Messina?”
“I think you’d want a hell of a lot more evidence,” I chuckled. “Well, Special Agent Baxter Flynn, if we’re done here, you can kindly take your leave. It’s very late and I’d like to get to bed. I’m sure you’ll be safe enough if you call one of your cop buddies to give you a lift home.”
“I don’t have any cop buddies.” The room was poorly lit, but in the faint light I could see him flushing. I wondered exactly what it was that would make a young man like Baxter Flynn blush.
There was a part of me that wanted to offer that he stay right here, stay with me until dawn. Putting him back out on the street could be dangerous if the Central Park shooter had tracked us.
But Luca had expressly forbidden contact with the enemy. And this kid, this beautiful blushing boy, with his baby-faced glare, was most definitely the enemy.
Besides, an FBI agent really should be able to take care of himself. So I bit back the offer of a couch for the night.
“This is a long way from over,” he was saying as he pulled on his jacket.
“You sound like one of those terrible ’50s gangster movies,” I told him with a grin.
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Fuck you,” and turned to leave. But he was defeated at the door with the electric lock. I came up behind him in the hallway, enjoying the way he jumped when I leaned in to unlock it for him.
“State-of-the-art,” I said in his ear, crowding him a little. “You can never be too careful in this city.”
“Was that supposed to be a threat?”
“I’m sure there’s some little law against threatening FBI agents as well. As for me, I’m a law-abiding citizen. You’d better run along now, and don’t go chasing the Big Bad Wolf into the forest along the way.” He pushed past me and I seized his arm. “I’m serious, kid. You make sure you stay safe out there.”
I waited until I knew he’d hit the landing nine floors below before I went to the window to look at the street below. Flynn was paused there, looking around carefully, and then back up at me.
He probably couldn’t see me, but I raised a hand in farewell nevertheless.
As soon as I was sure he must be halfway down the block, I ran back down and out of the apartment building, following from a distance until I saw him hail a taxi.
He wasn’t my problem, I told myself as I walked back home. He wasn’t my problem at all, and it was foolish of me to care what happened to the enemy. That’s what he was, after all. My enemy, and the enemy of my Family. But there was still something about him that aroused my protective instinct.
Curious.
Back in my apartment, I conceded that I had not felt quite so lighthearted for many years. All that excitement and adrenaline must have lifted my mood, and I felt more cheerful than I had since well before Tino Morelli’s death. But I pushed aside thoughts of the old Don, and sat down to call my new master instead. Luca D’Amato was awake still, waiting for my call. I’d told him my plan, to go out myself tonight through Central Park, a fishing expedition to see if I got a bite.
