Rossi’s: Best Pizza in Vanguard.
“Debatable,” I mumbled. The location had nothing to do with their greasy pizza or overly sweet sauce. When Booker suggested we meet, I needed somewhere safe, free of assassins, corporate espionage, and prying eyes. Rossi’s fit the bill on all accounts. More importantly, it meant red in Italian. I ordered from here weekly for that fact alone.
I opened the door and was greeted by faux-Tuscan bricks along the left wall. Murals of the Italian countryside covered the right. While they leaned heavily into the theme, the funniest part was the owner. Jake Owens. The waitress once let it slip that he was born in Vanguard with absolutely no Italian heritage. We all had personas—why shouldn’t the owner of a pizza joint be any different?
Plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths pushed it over the edge. While Jake spun pizza dough in the air, I expected him to shout out victory with a fake Italian accent. I thought I had arrived first, but then I spotted the man in the trench coat holding a menu in front of his face. Those broad shoulders would stand out anywhere.
I let out a deep exhale, ready for the uncomfortable conversation ahead of me. As I walked through the pizzeria, I guessed at his first question. Who are you? How did Ido that? Or maybe he had already connected the dots. You’re a super? The question became, “Are you a hero or a villain?”
In the back corner, I pulled out a chair and sat down. My fingers gripped my jeans as I prepared for the interrogation. Would he start with the twelve seconds of silence? Or would he take the direct approach? I was fearful of any tactic he pulled out. I’m pretty sure I’d break before?—
He slid a sheet of paper across the table.
“It’s not over.”
The grip on my knees eased. I had thought he wanted to discuss what happened at Cypher’s apartment. Instead, he wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery. I could handle this. Work. Good. I shoved the worry to the back of my mind.
“Who do you think made it?” I asked.
He set the menu down. The red of his beard clashed with the tablecloth, almost fitting the grim expression on his face. Shaking his head, he spun the note around.
“Wrong question. This isn’t a warning. It’s an admission.”
“You think somebody is helping us?”
“Synergy would like to say everything is sorted. They’re satisfied.”
“You’re not?”
The slightest smirk. Booker didn’t want the game to end, not yet.
“I was assigned to find the crook… orcrooks. Come, Drew, come. The game is afoot.”
Why was I not shocked that he read Sherlock Holmes? “What next? Do we go to Ms. Keyes? Ricardo?”
“We’ll have to schedule a meeting and?—”
“Drew!”
I heard the smacking bubblegum before I saw Becky. She stepped behind the counter, looking as if she fell out of the eighties. From neon pink and purple leggings to her shirt tied off her hip, she idolized the decade. Jake’s daughter couldn’t have graduated from high school yet, but that didn’t stop her from joining the family business.
“You’re not ordering takeout?” She asked me but didn’t stop staring at Booker. “Are you going to introduce me to yourfriend?” She all but added air quotes to the question. “Don’t be rude.”
“Booker, this is Becky. Becky, meet Booker.”
She held out her hand. He gave it a hearty shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“Are we going to be sharing a pizza?”
My focus had been on the disapproving glances from Booker as he asked about Cypher. I had never thought about ordering. I’d leave her an extra tip for some privacy and less insinuating something that wasn’t going on.
“We’ll just have?—”
“Whatever Drew normally gets,” Booker said. “Large.”
She chomped that gum as if she held a grudge. “That good with you,Drew?”
Her tip went down by the second. “Sure. I guess? Why not?”
