“Let’s go, Tits.”
“What’s the case for?” she asks, as we pull out of the lot.
“It blocks electromagnetic fields. Means people can’t track our phones.”
“People like Mr. Parker?”
I punch the church address into the car’s GPS. “People like Roberto Bassilotta.”
“Bobby? Why?”
“Because he’ll be tracking you like the hairy pervert he is. And I’m not having him fucking up our big day out.”
“Why don’t we just turn our phones off?”
“He can turn them on remotely, but there’s no way that slippery fucker’s getting through the faraday. We’ll get to your Zia’s funeral, Tits, don’t you worry about that.”
“Oh.” She slides her hand into mine. “Thank you, Doc.”
My heart goes all fluttery and I try to squeeze her fingers, but it’s like holding a block of ice for too long. I pull away. “We need to talk disguises. You can’t walk into the church looking like Tits McGee Whitehall.”
January purses her lips. “You know, you don’t have to be mean to me just because you’re stressed.”
I lift my fingernails to my mouth then force them away. If I’m feeling anything, it’s exposed, like she can see into my filthy head. “If you don’t watch your mouth, you’ll be feeling a lot of things. I don’t give a damn what Morelli and Basher have done, your ‘no sex’ rule doesn’t mean shit to me.”
She flushes but doesn’t say anything. I’m glad, but I also feel like a shitheel. I don’t want her to think I’d take her virginity in a stolen BMW on the way to her mother-figure’s funeral.
But it’s too late, I’ve already been the asshole. I always am. Like when I kicked the shit out of Baskerville at Dreams instead of holding her or threatening her by the pool when she was just trying to be nice about Alessia. After Parker’s dead, things will be better. I’ll have time to get a hold of my temper. I’ll be able to let January take my hand without thinking of the million and one ways I don’t deserve to have her like me.
Soon we arrive at the tiny tailor shop outside New York. I lead January around the exposed brick walls to where dozens of Italian wool suits and shirts hang beside rows of belts and racks of shiny leather wingtips.
“What is this place?” she asks.
“A friend of Morelli’s from the old country. We get a permanent discount on suits.”
The wizard who owns the place appears out of nowhere, clapping his gnarled hands. “Buongiorno, Mr. Valente,” he says in his heavily accented voice. “And you,signorina. How are you?”
January lowers her head into what’s almost a curtsey. “Io sto bene, signore. Lei come sta?”I’m well, sir. How are you?
The old guy gets so excited to hear a hot girl speak Italian, his cock probably gets hard for the first time in years. I browse the suits as they make small talk, him nattering fluidly, her responses sweet and hesitant. I’m a little in awe. Usually, the old guy says only two words and they’re‘hold still.’
Maybe Parker wasn’t the stupidest fuck in the world to try and marry her. She’s got that Jackie O thing, all pretty and polite and genuinely interested. And she’s got a body like Marilyn Monroe. JFK’s two girls in one.
If I get a chance, I’ll mention that to Parker before I choke the life out of him in Vegas. By tomorrow, I’ll know if Jessica—the cousin of one of my dancers—is able to sneak me into Palm Casino. If she is, I’ll fly to Vegas and tidy up this Parker thing before the contract’s signed.
I check my watch. Only two hours until the funeral, we need to hurry.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I tell the old guy. “But we gotta get moving. I need a black suit appropriate for a funeral and a dress and veil for her.”
The old man makes a spitting sound as he gestures to January. “You’d cover this magnificent face?”
“’Fraid so. Quick as you can, old man.”
Ten minutes later, we’re back in the BMW, me in a penguin suit, January in a tight black dress. In her lap is a hat with a thick veil. She touches the rim. “Won’t everyone think I’m a total freak wearing this?”
“Sure, but you’ll be a freak they can’t recognize and that’s the point.”
“But who will I be? What will I say if someone asks who I am?”
