“I’m sure she’s aware this is a pretty fucked-up building,” he said. “You know we own a construction company.”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean it actually works?” I assumed all the businesses were shells, especially the ones that didn’t really need to show people they were functioning. Like a construction office. It must’ve been incredibly easy just to say you were working, throw up a couple of signs, and cash in the large cheques. I knew how fraud worked. But they did have the restaurant, which functioned, and surely that place would be pulling in more cash than it should through whatever it was Rocco was hiding, and whatever his brother had been talking about last night. Poker, gambling, illegal betting.
Rocco tilted his head. “I thought I might’ve fucked all that out of you,” he said. “You know, the part of you that’s trying to figure out all the stuff my family does.”
I giggled, those nervous bubbles popping. “I wondered why you were thrusting so hard.”
The elevator dinged and an older woman with a cane walked out, complaining about how slow it was, almost hitting us with the cane as she trundled by.
“I can have someone come and fix this,” Rocco whispered to me. “You know that. Right?”
In the elevator, I pressed the number to my mom’s floor. “I—I didn’t, but now I do, and I think that might be a good thing. It would probably help her get to her appointments. I know she hates leaving the house because of this thing.”
Rocco cuddled me into his side with a gentle squeeze. “And I guess the only way you’ll know everything is if you marry me.”
It came out of nowhere. My face was red in the panels reflecting back at me. “Marry you?”
“I’m not proposing,” he said. “We’ve only spent one night together. We’ll give it a week.” He squeezed me into his side a little more, watching us both in the reflection. I was becoming too warm now.
“Oh my god.” I knew he was playing, but the idea someone would even float spending their life with me made me want to vomit—in a good way.
My mom was sitting where I’d left her in the apartment, on the sofa surrounded by a lot of yarn, although most of it was now crocheted into a blanket. She smiled, but it twitched, almost like she was ready to snap out of it any second. She looked Rocco up and down—he was tall, muscular, and wore an expensive suit. Everyone looked.
“This is Rocco,” I said.
“Rocco Bianchi,” she said, dusting the shreds of yarn off her lap. As she moved, she cooed, trying her best to stretch out of whatever position she’d somewhat galvanized herself in.
Rocco went right to her, dipping to a knee. “I can help you, Mrs. O’Ryan.”
She laughed, taking his hand. “I’m no longer with Mr. O’Ryan, but you can call me Jane,” she said.
“Jane,” he said. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Have you had breakfast?” I asked her. “You know you need to eat.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said. “I told Rachel I’d make her a blanket for the baby she’s got coming.”
“Who’s Rachel?”
She scoffed. “You don’t listen,” she said, her tone sharp and her gaze even sharper. “She’s my friend.”
It was the first time I’d heard of her friend, and I wasn’t sure if she was going to be someone I’d ever hear about again.In fact,didn’t know if there was a Rachel, or if she was just someone she’d made up. There was an entire laundry basket filled with blankets and plush toys she’d made—all of which were off limits, because she’d made them for people—and I think part of me knew she’d made them up, but confronting her about it wasn’t going to do anything. She needed a doctor, and I needed answers.
In the kitchen, I stressed in thought, making my mom some eggs and toast. Rocco talked to her in the living room, and they both laughed. I think she was hitting on him, and if he could get her to eat, I’d let her keep doing it. But I suppose that meant she approved.
They were sitting together on the sofa when I walked in with a dish of scrambled egg and some slices of buttered toast. Rocco had a pile of blankets on his lap that she’d placed there, talking about each of them.
“My friend Rocco likes my blankets,” she said, tilting her head and smiling.
“Your friend,” I said, placing the bowl on the coffee table.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to make him one. He wants something that will match his rather fancy suit.”
Rocco seemed pleased, almost smug that she was saying all of this, approving of him, though I wanted to let him know she could switch on a dime—and she would. But for now, it was a nice moment. I could see just how caring and comforting Rocco could be without the big scary bad guy persona put on.
“I made your favorite,” I told her.
She shook her head. “Laced with poison,” she said.
