“Do that. You have three days.” I open the back passenger door of my Bentley. “If you have not found the culprit by then, get rid of the entire team overseeing the Boston warehouses and have Nathan recruit a new one.”
“Sir?” Brahms’s tone holds more than a little astonishment.
“You heard me. Everyone. Anyone who had the means to get at this info.” I slide into the seat and slam the door.
“Home, Mr. Ruffo?” Jim asks as he navigates out of the depot’s parking lot.
A glance at my wristwatch confirms that it’s almost nine at night. The drive to my house—my new house that I needed to purchase after my wife’stragic deathduring the home invasion on the night of Brio’s retirement party—is about an hour. It’s a beautiful oceanfront property located on the North Shore, within reach of a charming historical village with its quaint little shops, but still far enough away to ensure my privacy. The eight-thousand-square-foot, six-bedroom residence nestled on five acres of land is nothing to sneeze at, but I still miss my old place in Weston. Unfortunately, appearances in Cosa Nostra are a fucking plague. And a widower is like a bug under a microscope. If I were to behave in a socially unacceptable manner in the eyes ofla Famiglia, the goddamn earth would shift. So, while grieving (yes, my fucking heart bled for the bitch), I found it was too painful to continue living in a home filled with my late wife’s memories. Hence, I moved.
The pain in my head is approaching a nuclear level. The pounding at my temple resembles the heavy downpour that has been unleashed outside. A million pings on the car roof feel like aceaseless drill inside my skull. I remove my glasses and close my eyes, then lean my head against the headrest. “Home.”
Today utterly sucked as far as my migraine is concerned. The punishing pressure behind my eye ramped up around noon and hasn’t abated. Seeing that damn list of license plates doubled its intensity. I need to contact Bratva right away to find out how the hell that info ended up in their possession. The more worrisome question is, why did Petrov choose to show me his hand? Letting me know he knew which of my trucks were currently carrying drugs sure as shit wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart. The Russians’ leader is well-known for exploiting leverage. I’m certain he’ll demand a favor in return. Unfortunately, I don’t presently have the mental capacity to negotiate with Roman Petrov. My goddamned brain feels like it’s being turned into mush. And, to date, I’ve discovered only a single remedy that soothes my headaches.
I reach into my pocket and wrap my fingers around the bundle of cellophane-enclosed crumbs that, at one point, was a rainbow cookie. I really should throw it away. But I can’t. For some logic-defying reason, touching this silly homemade cookie helps subdue my pain. But not as much as setting my eyes on the treat’s creator does.
Three weeks ago, I endured one of the worst migraines I’ve had in months. Just my luck, it coincided with a meeting at the Spada Estate. The don’s constant yelling only amplified the pain. If I hadn’t distanced myself by moving to the sitting area across the room, it’s quite possible I would have slit his throat just to muzzle him.
So there I was, reviewing a mind-numbing contract, seconds from excusing myself so I could flee that madhouse, when from the corner of my eye, I noticed Little Iris stepping into the room. In that exact moment, the stabbing throbbing in myhead disappeared. I was so stunned by the abrupt relief that I sat dumbfounded while the skittish girl carried her tray of refreshments directly to me. I didn’t connect the two events until after she ran out of the room. That’s when my migraine roared back with a vengeance.
Being as pragmatic as I am, thinking that someone’s mere presence would have such an overwhelming impact on me is simply ridiculous. I discarded the notion almost as soon as it formed. It didn’t stop me from sending Jim to intercept the woman and give her a ride wherever she needed to go to get to her ill mother. I refused to believe I did it out of some subconscious sense of gratitude for temporarily suppressing my pain. That shit was just a bizarre coincidence. More likely, I did it in a moment of weakness, witnessing a rare sight—genuine worry for a loved one. A truly atypical occurrence. An hour later, I wasn’t feeling so magnanimous, though. I had to call a fucking Uber to get my ass home since Little Iris was using my car.
A few days later, on my way into the office, I received a report from one of Brahms’s men keeping an eye on Miss Iris Fabbri. That’s yet another idiotic thing I’ve done. Having Little Iris followed and her daily activities relayed to me. Nevertheless, it was happening. I was informed that she was at the park, walking a dog not far from Ruffo Enterprises headquarters. Should I have cared where she was and what she was doing? No. But something possessed me, and I directed Jim to head to the Public Garden immediately. Then, I spent nearly an hour hiding behind the trunk of a weeping willow, watching the girl play with a dog and pick up the pooch’s crap afterward. And while I was being an utter creep, my head didn’t hurt at all.
To be sure—not for any other reason—I tested my theory, following Little Iris on a few more occasions. I really hit my stride with my stalkerish behavior while she did mundane thingslike shopped for groceries, watered plants on the windowsill of the shelter she volunteers at, and arranged a power tools display at the hardware store. I did it from the comfort of my car. Watching her from behind the tinted window. What the fuck is wrong with me?
This insane behavior needs to stop. Nothing I’ve seen leads me to think the woman will spill the beans about what transpired between Filippa and me. She had plenty of chances thus far, but kept her mouth shut. There’s no reason for my men to continue to follow her around. And, migraines be damned, I definitely won’t seek her out again.
Of course, the very second I make my decision, a piercing pain slashes through my head. The jolt is enough to halt my breath.
“Damn,” I rasp. “Jim. Turn the car around. Need to make a detour.”
“Shoot!”
The rain is relentless, pelting me as I struggle to turn the old lock. The stupid thing tends to act up at the worst of times. Like now, while I’m stuck beneath a ripped awning over the front entrance to the tiny flower shop I work at. The owner still hasn’t gotten anyone in to fix or replace it, even though the thing got torn to shreds last winter.
Ugh, I hate closing up the store.
I shove the half-wilted bouquet of red roses under my arm so I can have both of my hands free. Pulling the door handle with all my might, I try again to turn the key. Finally, the deadbolt slides into the bore hole with a loud click. Hallelujah!
This day has been a total drag. It started with Rina texting to let me know that her cousin still doesn’t have an opening for me at the gentlemen’s club she works at. It’s been almost a month since I asked. But I guess the positions there are highly coveted. Big money and all that. So unless one of the girls gets sick or quits, I’m outta luck. If things don’t change soon, I’ll have to consider other options to start earning quick, hard cash. Maybe I could sell one of my kidneys? I wonder how much that would go for? Somehow, I suspect it won’t cover even a quarter of what Mom needs.
My worn-out canvas sneakers are soaked through as soon as I step onto the sidewalk. Great. The shop is about a forty-minute walk from home. In the summertime, when it stays light out much longer, and when the weather is nice, I enjoy strolling along the bustling sidewalks. Not tonight, though. The streets are deserted, with everyone indoors, escaping the late-fall chill. The rain started coming down about an hour ago, then transformed into a torrential downpour, and smart me didn’t bring an umbrella.
If I stick around to wait for the bus, I’m sure I’ll be drenched through to my underwear. This ancient coat is useless against the wind, never mind the rain. I’ll be miserable the whole time, but I think I should just make a run for it instead of waiting around, hoping the bus will come on schedule. At times like this, it’s a little doubtful anyway.
I startle at the sound of approaching footsteps behind me. Throwing a quick look over my shoulder, I’m relieved that it’s only another ill-prepared person caught in the rain, hurryinghome, I bet. Lately, I’ve become kinda jumpy, constantly feeling like I’m being followed. I blame the scary-as-hell novel I read about a serial killer who stalked his victims for weeks before kidnapping and killing them in the most freakish ways. So, yeah, I’m jumpy. I could do with a bit of a palette cleanser, a nice rom-com, perhaps. Or maybe a nature documentary of some kind. Whatever it is, I need to do something because my imagination is running wild, making me see things that aren’t really there.
A couple of weeks ago, I almost had a coronary, thinking a guy in a dark suit was following me. My panic went through the roof. I was certain that Ruffo decided to send one of his goons to dispose of me after all. It ended up being nothing, though. Just some random dude I never saw again. My mind is definitely tripping, but I’m pretty sure my fear is baseless. If Adriano Ruffo did want me dead, I’d already be rotting in some ditch somewhere. With a bullet hole in my head.
Just like his wife.
Why did he kill her?For the hundredth time or more, the thought invades my mind.
The gossip from withinla Famigliahas never interested me, but I’ve always been fascinated by mysteries. Puzzle-solving is my jam. Crime thrillers are my addiction. Whenever I find a free hour, I devour the suspense novels I get from the library. But now, I have a real-life enigma to solve. Adriano Ruffo. A man who isn’t what he wants you to see.
I still can’t seem to stop thinking about him. About what he’d done. His reasons for doing it. But the question that’s tormenting me the most is: Why am I still alive?
You have nothing to fear from me, Little Iris.
