“Franco didn’t work alone,” I say, picking up a different knife to remove his flesh that I put on the table.
Andrea nods. “He spent every Friday in Eden. Renata is pulling his membership to locate the woman he fucked. She left right after we grabbed him.”
We share a look.
“Find her. I want her in my basement for interrogation.”
Andrea leans against the table and eyes the pieces of Franco I place in a container. “You should stop by Eden to ask her yourself.”
I cut my eyes at his smile. “Find the woman.”
“Alright. So grumpy after a kill.” He passes me a clean shirt. “Want to eat?”
“I’m in the mood for swordfish.”
Chapter 3
"Some Tuscan Sh*t"
Bianca
Turning the page on my life should not come at the risk of heatstroke, but I am outside. For a limited time. Humidity is enjoying her best life, showing her ass in the worst way.
My breath is deep, drawn through a thick, heated breeze, melting the thin layer of makeup I applied to look cute. I look like a glazed ham baking in the sun. I do a quick shimmy for the back of my floral maxi dress to unhand my cheeks. The straps slashing over my spine are a decorative oven grate at this point.
Summer doesn’t officially start for two weeks, and I’m already planning my affair with the air conditioner. This can’t be the same weather I spent playing with Stephanie Down the Hill before Mama Vee came to take my butt into the house.
Stephanie is somewhere in the sky, heading back to Baltimore from wherever her latest travel nurse contract has taken her. It feels like years since we’ve seen each other. She wouldn’t be caught dead in this humidity. I am fully prepared to do hand-to-hand combat with the heat index to relive a childhood memory.
Little Italy’s film festival was an annual tradition in the Harris household. Mama Vee always found affordable events aroundthe city and took us since the festival first began when I was in middle school.
Our Saturday nights during the summer were the same routine.
A movie cast on the side of a building.
Snowballs with melted marshmallows we’d grab from the ice cream man before leaving Patterson Park.
Baked lasagna with greens gifted in to-go containers.
My visits home became less frequent after I began working at Hamilton Capital. The festival ended about a decade ago, the same year Mama Vee passed. The tenth anniversary of her death will occur months after my fortieth birthday. I’m reclaiming every minute of time wasted to finally live how she dared me to: out loud and without apology.
Tonight’s revival is a homecoming. I feel Mama Vee’s hug stretching the length of the block lined with lawn chairs in front of Italian restaurants. Her hugs were always scented with the soft musk she stocked next to her cocoa butter and collection of unused Avon products.
Little Italy was part of my childhood.
I met Mr. John here.
“You want me to die from a heart attack and heat exhaustion too?”
And him.
Vince barks at a server balancing a tray of meatballs in his hand the size of his body. He doesn’t look older than sixteen and trips when his dress shoe catches on the curb. The metal container tips, but he quickly rights it to save the award-winning meatballs and sauce.
“Che cazzo, ragazzo,“ Vince groans with his fingertips pressed to his thumbs.
“Sorry, Mr. DeStefano!” The server’s black-and-white uniform is one size too big. So are the dress shoes swallowing his bony ankles.
Vince’s shoulders uncoil. “I got it,” he says, taking the tray. “Why don’t you check on Ms. Teresa and grab a seat. You did good today.”
