I thought about Salvatore and Lucia’s relationship, how it had started, how it was meant to be, how it had turned out. “No.” Simple answer. “They’re married and have two kids, a third on the way. They love each other,” I added, confused why I added that last part.
I knew what lay beneath my anger over how things had been way back when, how I was last in line, the one who would only inherit upon the death of my two older brothers. I always knew, I just had never admitted it—not to myself, not to anyone—but I was jealous. I’d always been jealous, especially of Salvatore.
“Here it is,” I said, finding the kit, unable to meet her gaze until I got the expression on my face under control. Too much fucking emotion in this house. Too much memory.
I held it out to her, and she took it, an awkward silence between us. I looked at what was on the counter. She’d cleaned the space and found pasta, an unopened bottle of olive oil, and a can of tuna. A pot of water rumbled to a boil on the stove top.
“Think tuna fish is still good after seven years?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“The pantry’s stocked. Mostly expired food, though,” she said, sticking the edge of a bandage in her mouth to tear it open.
I took it from her and stripped off the wrapper, then took her hand, ignoring the almost electrical charge upon touching her, denying its pull, and held the bloodied finger under the water to clean it. After drying it, I wrapped the bandage over it. “There.” I released her as quickly as possible.
“Thanks.” She cleared her throat and busied herself with the pasta.
“You didn’t stay in your room.” I picked up the can of tuna and opened it.
“I was hungry. And don’t worry. When I heard you talking, I walked on by and didn’t go into the room you don’t want me to go into.” She rolled her eyes.
I peeked into the pantry to check it out. She was right. There was a lot of food, most of which would have to be thrown away, but it’d do for a couple of days. At least while I figured out what I was doing.
Reaching into a cupboard where dishes were stacked, I took two, washed them, and set them on the counter.
“Do you know what information Mateo had on Victor Scava?”
She glanced at me but returned her attention to the pot when she answered. That’s how I knew she was lying. Women tried to look busy when they told lies.
“No. Not specifically.”
I sniffed the tuna. “I don’t think I want to take a chance with this.” I dumped the can with its contents into the trash can. Gia kept her gaze on the pasta. I washed my hands and dried them, then turned to her. “You don’t mind?”
She gave me a nervous glance. “No, you’re probably right.”
I took her wrist, squeezed a little, and made her look at me.
“What information did Mateo have on Victor Scava?”
She studied me, her expression cool, hiding any pain she felt behind her clever eyes as she weighed her options.
“He’d worn a wire and recorded some conversations.”
“Why did you lie when I first asked you?” I softened my grip and turned her arm over to look at the soft inside of her wrist, so small and delicate, then returned my gaze to hers.
I squeezed again, hurting her.
She flinched.
“Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know.”
We locked gazes while water boiled over in the pot. “Do you have access to the recordings?”
Her jaw tightened, and I twisted her arm behind her back, standing so close our bodies touched, hers small and soft, mine wanting.
“Yes.”
