“That won’t be necessary.”
I make my way out and get behind the wheel. It takes the better part of an hour to navigate traffic all the way to the address I found online, but I don’t question that I’ve made the right decision. Both in doing this and keeping her in the dark about it.
Amara is proud. Above all, she’s protective of what’s hers. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission—not that I plan on needing either.
I get there just before dusk.
The house is run down at best, sinking into the cold, hard New York dirt. It’s on a street of cookie cutter houses from the Fifties, homes that may have been nice once. But thanks to the rising crime rates in the area, the neighborhood has become neglected and sketchy. The idea of Amara having ever lived in this place makes me want to vomit, not to mention the thought of her younger siblings still being here.
My plan is to do a slow drive-by. But when I see a garage outback holding a red muscle car and a kid bent over the engine, I find myself rolling to a stop.
It’s Gianni. And good idea or not, I think I’m going to pay him a visit.
My shoes crunch on the gravel as I make my way down the drive. I’m surprised he doesn’t hear me coming, but when I get closer, I know why. One, he really is deep diving in that engine. And twohe’s got the radio blasting hard rock music from a unit on the workbench.
It isn’t until he straightens up to wipe his brow that he notices me standing there. He immediately whips around defensively, standing on guard with a wrench in his hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, chin held high. He’s putting up a front, and while he’s not a big guy, five seven at best, I can tell he’s been in fights. If I had to guess, he’s spent his entire life fighting.
“Calm down, kid. I’m Ransome Rozanov.”
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” he asks, his hand tightening on the wrench. But I just stand there. My shoulders aren’t squared. My hands are where he can see them.
“I’m Amara’s boss.”
His expression softens a little, but his death grip on the tool doesn’t waver.
“She’s not here,” he tells me. “She doesn’t live here. But you probably know that.”
“I do know that,” I agree. “And I’m not looking for her. She’s at work.”
“So what do you want?”
“I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.”
He snorts with a smirk.
God, you are more like Nikky than you know…
“You?Youwere in the area.” He looks me up and down with a mix of disgust and envy on his face. I can see him mentally tack a price on every item of clothing I’m wearing and come up with more zeroes than he’s ever seen in his life. “Fat chance. For real, man, what do you want?”
“I want to see where my assistant’s family lives.” I take a few steps closer, then I stop. I respect the kid enough to acknowledge that he is the man of the house.
“There’s nothing to see here,” he says. “We aren’t like you. Obviously.”
“You don’t know where I come from.” I eye the car. “You build that engine?”
“From scraps.” He looks back, his stance loosening a little. “You know cars?”
“I know them well enough to know that’s a 1967 Chevrolet Chevelle SS.”
“Well, shit. Maybe you aren’t just deep pockets and hot air.”
Gianni walks over to the work bench and sets the wrench down. Then he reaches into a small, old Frigidaire and pulls out two bottles.
“Beer?” he asks, holding one out to me.
“Should you be drinking?”
