“I don’t even know why you’re freaking out so much right now,” he laughs breathlessly, as I chase him, catch him, and pull him down onto the dryer sand further up near the bottom of the bluffs.
“You think it’s funny, but what if it’s actually some weird fucking squid or octopus or something? It could get its freaky-ass beak-mouth on my face and ruin my good looks. Then you’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you kidding? Nick Fontana’s nose getting eaten off by a squid? I could dine out on a story like that for months.” He shoves me over, so he’s on top, and I spread my thighs so he falls between them, bend my knees, tighten my arms around him so he’s all wrapped up in me. “On second thought, I don’t want to dine out anywhere. All I want is this.” He kisses me. But the sand whips up a little in the wind, getting into our mouths just before we seal our lips together, ruining the kiss after a few seconds of trying.
Pleh, we both say.Pleh, pleh. We’re spitting sand and laughing. It’s in my top three kisses, despite the sand.
We never get to the lighthouse. We stay there on the beach making out like a couple of kids, even down near the waves like that scene in an old black-and-white movie. But all too soon, the morning is gone and it’s time to go to work again. Carlo insists on taking a long string of stinky seaweed with him back up to the house, and I find out I love him enough to overlook the seaweed obsession.
* * *
We getlunch from a taco truck on the way through to the Hamptons and arrive at the Dellacroce restaurant coming up on two o’clock, hoping to at least get a glimpse of this guy. We’re both restless today. I sit with my fingers on the steering wheel, tapping with increasing tension as the minutes go by. Normally I’m pretty patient in a stakeout like this, but right now it feels like it’s only taking away from time that I could be spending with Carlo in more interesting and sexy pursuits. I just can’t get my head in the right place. It’s buzzing around, thinking about the beach this morning, the way we made love last night, and Luca’s face when he finds out everything I’ve done.
The longer we’re away from the City, the worse it’s going to be for us. I’m not confident anymore that Luca will forgive my transgressions. They seem too many, too consequential to overlook.
“Can you cut that out?” Carlo eventually says, half-laughing, but half genuinely irritated at my tapping fingers.
“Sorry.”
“You weren’t like this last night when we were waiting here. Do you really think anyone’ll recognize us if they see us?”
We’ve done our best to be inconspicuous, baseball hats pulled low, sunglasses, slouching down in the seats. It’s not going to fool any Family member worth his salt, but I’m banking on the idea that whoever asked me to take out this guy is not actually a Family member.
“We can’t really know that,” Carlo says, when I remind him. “And it’s not like some random person is going to try to hire you to take out a restaurant owner.”
“No, but if hewerea Family member, why wouldn’t they just do it themself? Or hire someone approved by his own Family? Or at least approach the Commission to discuss the idea? It just doesn’t make sense that our blackmailer is a made man, or an associate for that matter.”
“There are a hundred scenarios where itdoesmake sense,” Carlo mutters under his breath, slumping even further down in the seat. “Plus this seems to be a pattern, getting other people to do their dirty work. They sent someone after me, right?”
“Maybe. Or maybe that was just a coincidence, or maybe it was someone else who had a beef with you.”
“I don’t havebeefswith anyone. It’s just business. If law firms went around knocking off the competition, someone would notice pretty fast.”
We’ve had this discussion before, and I’m on edge enough that his response bugs me. “What do you want me to do? This is the safest way to figure out what’s going on—approaching via the potential victim. It’s not like weknowwho broke into your apartment.”
“Yeah, Iget that,” he starts, the same irritation making him snappy, but then I sit up in my seat and shush him.
“It’s him.” I nod toward the guy coming out of the restaurant, the one getting into a Mercedes, the chirp of the car alarm penetrating our car windows. “Giovanni Dellacroce.”
“How do you know? That guy could be anyone of a thousand Hamptons visitors. They’ve all got Mercs, they’ve all got—”
“Because I saw his damnface, Bianchi,” I growl. I start the car, getting ready to pull out and follow when the Merc leaves. But someone else has come out of the restaurant, chasing down Dellacroce before he can take off.
Carlo clutches my arm, hard enough to make me wince. “Nicky.”
“Ow,what?”
“Do you see that guy?”
“Uh, yeah, I just fucking pointed him out.” I pull my arm away, and Carlo just grabs onto my shoulder instead, leaning over me to stare hard out the window.
“Not thedriver. Look at the guytalkingto him.”
I squint at the skinny guy talking to Dellacroce through the car window, but it’s hard to make out his face from this angle. “What about him?”
“That is thefucking bartenderfrom the Alessi wedding.” We stare together, the seconds ticking by.
“So?” I grunt at last. “Makes sense that some kids around here would pick up jobs wherever they can.”
