“And?”
Vinny crossed the room. The remodel in this basement matched mine to a tee. The space was divided into two halves: the interrogation room, separated by its own door, and the equivalent of an Italian villa cantina. Wine bottles and barrels lined the walls. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling, freshening up the grayish-brown space. Jars of homemade sauces and pickled goods decorated shelves. Cheeses and hanging salami contributed a savory aroma. The small kitchen, at the front, with its appliances, added an electric buzzing undertone to the otherwise peaceful space. You’d never think anything shady happened only one room down.
“None of my business, to be honest. Just treat her right.”
“How long have you known?”
“Caught her dropping off letters at the post office a few years ago. Intercepted a few on arrival. Then I found her stash of them in her room. Everything was always tame, so”—he shrugged—“I never saw the harm in it.”
I squared up to him. “You’d have put a stop to it if not?”
“Course. Boss or not, she’s family.”
“Good.” My head snapped up. “Does Tore know?”
“You think he’d stay quiet if he did?” He pulled three tomato sauce jars off the shelves and into his arms, probably at Isa’s request. “Ainsley deserves the best.”
“She does.”
“Is that you?”
My voice lowered menacingly. “You think there’s someone better?”
He snorted. “See, you’ve already got your answer. Now go woo your girl.”
“Woo?”
“Woo the shit out of her.” He shoulder-checked me on his way out. “And check your damn messages. Natale got a bar name. Something random, not tied to the Greeks in San Francisco. We’ll need a plan of attack.”
I checked my watch. Only thirty minutes had elapsed. That was why Massimo couldn’t measure up to Natale. The guy was a damn legend when it came to getting information out of prisoners.
Chapter 41
Duringthefirsttwodays of my radio silence, messages from Renzo poured in: small details about his day, requests, pleas, demands to talk, and lastly, a few romantic notes. He missed me. He thought of me. Such and such reminded him of me.
I reread each message several times, warmth always creeping up my face, but responded to none. I couldn’t give in that easily. He’d learn nothing otherwise.
On the third day of my radio silence, after an ominous good-morning message stating he had the perfect way for me to forgive him, a preppy personal shopper arrived midway through breakfast. She had specific instructions to deliver ten thousand dollars’ worth of clothing that matched my desired style, with another ten grand in lingerie and formal wear. Within ten minutes, the lady was out the door after a few rude comments about my shabby apartment and my choice of pajamas. When Renzo messaged me back asking how much I enjoyed my new wardrobe, he got a middle finger emoji and nothing else.
A few hours later, an email arrived confirming payment in full for my upcoming third year of medical school, followed by a text from Renzo reminding me not to forget to register forclasses. While it was a nice thought, I was worried it might affect my merit scholarship for next year, so I spent the rest of the day making phone calls to the registrar’s office and the student financial services office.
On the fourth day, gifts began arriving between messages. Bouquets, from red roses to tulips, orchids, and carnations—enough to fill a flower shop. An hour later, it was boxes of chocolates. Then gift baskets with edible fruit arrangements, an assortment of coffees, wine and salami, candy bars, bath products, alcohol, and more. There were foreign food products I’d raved about in letters over the years, photos of places I’d written to him about that I wanted to visit, and gift cards to my favorite casual-style restaurants. Poor Bee’s and my apartment was invaded, every inch of counter space and even some floor space overtaken by Renzo’s zealous purchasing. Our neighbors happily took a couple of gift baskets off our hands, but the entire place nearly overflowed.
“I think it’s romantic,” Bee croaked.
“The boss has good taste, at least,” Ricco commented between bites of chocolate peanut brittle.
“Padrino refused to buy me this stuff,” Lou stated, sniffing a jar of lotion from one of those high-end stores Tore’s last girlfriend loved. While Lou saw Tore as a brotherly figure, she liked teasing him with a mix-up of different nicknames over the years, the most recent being padrino. “That gives bossman an A-plus in my book.”
“None of you are supposed to side with him.” I recapped the jar and set it back down on the crinkle-cut gold paper between the bath bombs and salts. I stole a piece of peanut brittle from Ricco’s fingers. “And Tore doesn’t want you spoiled. You don’t need lotion that costs a hundred fifty dollars a jar when a ten-dollar one does the same thing.”
“So bitter,” Lou stated as the doorbell rang again. I groaned, hoping it was Tore to pick up the kids, not another delivery.
I stuck my tongue out at Lou. She made a crazed face back, and I couldn’t help but laugh. If only the world got to see more of her personality instead of the quiet, shut-in facade she put on.
When I opened the door, Vinny stood there. His arms were mercifully empty.
I looked around him. “Where’s Tore?”
