“Of course you don’t.” Dante’s words make me blink and look back at him. It takes me a moment to realize that I said that first part aloud. He gives me a smile, this one smaller than before, but no less sincere. “Because you get it. You understand that sometimes you have to do things that might be seen as immoral by others.”
My head bobs up and down again. “Yeah,” I agree. “I think…” I curl my fingers into my palms. “I think if someone tried to hurt Michelle or Giulio or… you, I’d kill them, too.” And I wouldn’t ever regret my actions. No remorse.
Dante’s smile stretches, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my temple. “That’s good,sorellina. That’s very good.”
“Sorellina?” I say, repeating the word. “What does that mean?” Am I going to have to start taking Italian lessons? Maybe I should.
“It means ‘little sister.’”
A burning sensation attacks the backs of my eyes. Little sister. I’ve never been anyone’s little sister. Not really. I shove back the urge to cry by blinking rapidly and looking away from the man at my side.
Thankfully, I’m saved by a knock on the door. Jumping up, I dash across the room, already knowing who it is. A glance at the kitchen clock tells me that she’s a bit earlier than expected—by a whole half hour.
When I open the door and Michelle’s happy face appears before me, I’ve got a good handle on my hopeful emotions, and Mean Daisy has faded into the background of my mind.
“Oh my God, Daisy! You’ll never guess what I did today!” Michelle breezes into the penthouse with a big, bulky purse slung over a shoulder. “There was a cute guy at the coffee shop andIasked him out. Can you believe it? Me! Taking the first step. He might just be my prince charming.”
She stops when she sees Dante and frowns. “I thought it was just going to be you and me?” she asks, turning to glare back at me as I finish shutting the door.
Dante doesn’t give me an opportunity to answer as he gets to his feet and moves to the stool still holding his suit coat. “Don’t worry, little menace,” he says, tossing the fabric over one arm. “I can’t stay anyway. I’ll leave the two of you alone.”
“Menace?” Michelle scowls and glares at him. I watch the reaction with a small smile curving my lips.
Dante ignores her and glances at me. “I’ll put some feelers out to the publishing companies,” he assures me. “You keep working on those résumés and cover letters. If I find anything, I’ll send you an email.”
“Oh!” I jump forward, hurrying back toward the living room. “Hold on, let me write it down for you.”
“No need,” he says, stopping me. “I’ve already got it.”
“How do you—” Again, I don’t get to finish my question as he waves goodbye over his shoulder and disappears out into the hallway. The door lock clicks back into place, and I’m left staring at a space of empty wood. I suppose Giulio probably gave him the information he needed when he asked for the favor.
“Ugh.” Michelle dumps her purse on the couch, right over a stack of old résumés. “That man can be so annoying.”
I look at her. “Dante? He’s super nice, though.”
Michelle shoots me a dark look and then rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she replies. “He’s got that pretty-boy vibe going on, and he knows he’s handsome. I’d bet you anything he uses his looks to get whatever he wants.”
Does he?I wonder absently as I float over to where she is.Maybe.But for people who need to always look out for themselves and the people they love, using everything at their disposal isn’t a desire as much as it is a survival tactic. So, even if Michelle is right, I know I won’t ever blame him for that.
21
GIULIO
The grass is greener where you bury the bodies.
I survey the man strapped to the table before me. His eyes are bulging beneath the leather strap that holds his head in place. A second strap is woven between his lips, keeping the muffled screaming to a minimum. It’s my saving grace. Listening to men cry and beg for their lives when I have no intention of sparing them only serves to get on my nerves. Unfortunately, that second strap is going to have to come out now because I’ve got questions that need to be answered.
A sharp nod to Alonzo has the other man stepping forward to remove it. Cracked lips press together, and then the man shivering on the table licks them, trying to wet them for several seconds before I finally get fed up and step up to his side.
Shoving in his face the morgue shot taken of the man Daisy killed, I ask my first question. “Who is this man to you?”
He looks at the image before his eyes skitter away. I continue holding it. His attention fixes on it and then repeats the process.He definitely knows the man. I shake the image. “Who is he?” I demand.
A tongue comes out and touches his lower lip. If he doesn’t give me what I want, I plan to cut that tongue out. “I—I don’t know,” the man—Gerard de Aldo—stutters and blinks rapidly.
Lie.
With a sigh, I put the picture down and step away, nodding to the other man across from Alonzo and me. Tommaso steps up, his shirt removed and replaced with a black leather apron like those worn by our local butcher. His long, sandy hair, lighter than most Italian’s—but then, he’s a half blood according to Don Luciani—is held in a low ponytail at the base of his skull. He reaches for the metal instrument tray beside the torture table and holds up a hunting knife with a serrated edge. That’s going to hurt. Gerard begins to cry.
