It’s no luxury beach house, that’s for sure, but I fall in love with the ramshackle old place just looking at it.
“Nice,” Carlo says, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he’s not being sarcastic.
“It’ll do.” I open the back seat and pull out both our bags, then follow Carlo up onto the stoop of the house and around the porch to the back. The view alone makes it worth the extra I pushed on the owner to accept my offer. The house overlooks the bluffs that fall down to the beach, and a heavy chain strung between metal posts is the only thing between the yard and the drop. Seems like a lawsuit waiting to happen, and judging by the hard light in Carlo’s eyes when he sees it, he thinks the same.
Carlo plugs in the key code to the lockbox, and then we go back around and unlock the front door. It opens into a living area, which hasn’t seen its best days in about thirty years. But somehow, it feels homey and welcoming, laid back in a way that New York never is. Certainly more welcoming than Villa Alessi ever was.
Thinking of Villa Alessi makes my shoulders go tense again, and while Carlo is busy wandering around the lower floor, I head upstairs with the bags to the bedroom. There are two bedrooms, but I don’t bother asking if he wants a room of his own, just dump both our bags in the master. And Carlo doesn’t bother to pretend separate rooms are an option either, when he finally makes it upstairs.
By that time I’m standing out on the little balcony that comes off the bedroom. It’s built in such a way that, unless you look right over the edge, you could be standing out over the ocean itself. I breathe in the salt air deeply, find my shoulders dropping back, the back of my neck unknotting, my jaw unclenching.
So what if I still don’t know who’s blackmailing me, or why they want Dellacroce dead? I’ll find the blackmailer, kill them, problem solved. And maybe Luca really did mean it when he said he just wanted me and Carlo to cool it while the Irish were still a problem. Maybe all this will work out, we’ll stamp out the IFF, and I can figure out exactly how deep my feelings for Carlo Bianchi actually run.
Carlo joins me on the balcony, stretching his arms in the sunshine, smiling up at the sky. “Feels like nothing on earth could touch us here, right?”
With a bump, I return to reality. Wishful thinking will get us both killed. I let myself get distracted by a bit of sunshine and the sound of waves. “We don’t come out on the balconies while we’re here. We keep all the curtains closed, all the windows closed, too. No going outside except when we leave to check out the address. Understand?”
“Jeez, lighten up, Nicky. I just want to enjoy myself for two seconds, that’s all, and then I swear I’ll get back to you worrying about who’s trying to kill me and blackmail you.”
He’s pretty ticked off. After all, I was the one standing out here with a stupid smile on my face as I stared out across the sea. We’re anonymous here and Montauk is a reasonable way from the Hamptons. Plus I don’t think this area gets much traffic from any of the New York Families.
“Sorry,” I tell him awkwardly. “Let’s just…get settled in.”
Carlo follows me back into the bedroom and I take another glance around the room, at the lame seashell decorations and paintings of the ocean under various weather patterns that dot the walls. Over the bed, there’s a sparkly painted net tacked up to the ceiling instead of a canopy.
“What do you think?” Carlo asks, watching me as I look around, as though he’s more interested in my opinion than the room itself.
“Kind of tacky. But…I like it.”
“I could say the same about you,” he says with a grin. “Ah, don’t pout, Big Guy, it’s not cute on you.”
“I’m not fucking pouting, and don’t fucking call me that. Let’s unpack, make a plan of attack. This restaurant we’re looking at only serves dinner today, and they don’t open until late afternoon.”
“Did you make a reservation?”
“Very funny.” I flip open my suitcase, take out my gun case, and check my weapon first. This is the gun I plan to use on the blackmailer: it’s unregistered, untraceable, brand new, never fired before. Perfect.
“Well, we’ve got to eat, don’t we?” Carlo says, as though the gun is about as important as the underwear he’s pulling out ofhisbag, and stashing in the drawer of the dresser in the corner. I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but I don’t plan on unpacking anything except the gun for now. If we need to high-tail it, easier to just grab one bag. But I let Carlo do his thing. Make himself at home in this place. I stomped too hard on him for enjoying himself on the balcony.
“I’m not gonna rock up to what could be a Family member’s restaurant and sit there like a fucking moron while he calls in backup to ice us.”
“Then what about somewhere here in Montauk? Come on, I’ve never been out this far before. I bet they have great seafood.”
I don’t know whether it’s the idea of wining and dining Carlo Bianchi, or the sea air making me reckless, but I give a shrug, toss him my burner phone, and tell him, “Fine. Pick a place, make a reservation, and we’ll go there tonight. Just make sure it’s early. I don’t want to risk an early closing night for this guy. We need to be there by nine at the latest to keep watch. We’ll follow the guy home, wait until we’re sure he’s alone, and then we’ll ask him a few questions.”
Carlo, grinning because he’s gotten his way, ignores my plan completely. “There are a bunch of recommendations in a pamphlet downstairs—I’ll pick one of those. There was this really well-reviewed oyster shack…”
His voice trails off as he leaves the room, going downstairs.
I look at the still-open drawer in the dresser, then into my suitcase. I take out two pairs of my socks and add them to the drawer. I can afford to leave them behind if we need to bounce fast. But there’s still something that feels right about having them in there.
Like this place really could be a vacation, just for a night or two.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Carlo
“What are we doing until dinner?” I ask Nick when he finally gets back downstairs. I’m making coffee in the surprisingly sophisticated pod machine, and Nick accepts an Americano when I push it over to him. I haven’t been sleeping great lately, between staying up too late with Nicky, worrying that someone’s trying to kill me, and wondering if—or when—someone’s going to pin the Gatti murder on us. Consequently, I need a lot more caffeine than usual to keep me firing.
