Page 47 of Levi

I start running it down in my head. What I tell Freddie if the call gets made, which version of the story keeps me out of the worst of it.

There isn’t a better version. A knife doesn’t care how you explain it. And the part that has me panicked isn’t that he’s holding it — it’s how little it cost him to get it. Dante didn’t pry this loose. I set it in his hand myself, over a box of donuts, half-dressed, because he said sorry like he meant it and folded my worn shirts into squares. Eight years I’ve kept my mouth shut on anything that mattered. He didn’t even have to ask twice.

That’s the mistake. Me, deciding just this once that it was safe to talk.

It has never been safe for me and it’s not now either. I need to remember that.

He takes another bite of the powdered donut, sets it on the box lid and brushes the sugar off his fingers, taking his time. When he looks up at me, his face is the one I saw on him that first morning. All business. No heat for me in his eyes now.

“You understand what you just gave me,” he says. Yes, damn it all to hell, I do. “One call to the property manager and you’re relocated by dinner. That’s a lot of leverage to hand over.”

He says it out loud, laid on the counter between the donuts. I don’t argue. I gave my leverage away because I trusted him and we both watched me do it.

There’s nothing I can do right now but stand right in the middle of it. I don’t reach for the chocolate glazed and I don’t look away from him.

If Dante’s going to make the call to sink me, he’ll make it whether I beg or not. I’ve spent a lifetime learning that begging just points their arrows straight at the softest part anyway.

“I’m well aware what I gave you, Dante.”

And I’m betting everything I’ve got that you won’t use it. I don’t say it. I just stand there and let him see where I stand. The silence stretches.

“Eat your donut.” He picks up what’s left of his donut. “They’re the best in town. And then go dry off. You’re dripping all over a floor I need to sell. The crullers are fantastic. Don’t let them go stale.” He takes another bite, like the phone call was a thing he considered and passed on. He’s not going to tell me so. Saying it would cost him the edge, and Dante doesn’t spend an edge he doesn’t have to.

I’ve got nothing to bank on except a gut feeling about him.

God, I hope I’m not wrong.

Chapter 16: Dante

I get out of the kitchen fast before I do something I can’t take back.

“Listen before I go.” I stop at the door, because this is business. “Saturday’s the showing. The client walks through at noon, and the house needs to look like no one ever breathed in it. Which means Friday it gets torn apart and put back together. Cleaning crew in every bathroom, Benji and a truck full of flowers, the entire house scrubbed and re-staged start to finish. On Friday, you’re gone all day, not just Saturday morning. I’ll sort out where to take you.”

“That’s two days,” he says.

“Yes.” The water’s tracking down him, and I keep my eyes on the cabinet over his shoulder. How can a man’s hair possibly drip this long? “And between now and then I’m coming by daily to check the humidity. That door’s been open since Saturday and the compressor is on borrowed time. I need eyes on the meter every day until the client walks through.”

Apparently, I need eyes on a lot of things.

“Daily?” he repeats.

“Yes, you’ll let me in.”

It isn’t a question, and we both know why it isn’t. He handed me all the leverage, the tracking, the man who can’t know this house is for sale. He needs me silent the same way I need him agreeable, and what my silence buys me is a door that opens when I knock.

“Sure, I’ll let you in,” he says, shrugging. “Not a problem.”

“Great.” I’m already through the door. “I need to head out to a closing.”

“That’s a lot of concern for a compressor. Coming by every day. You could call me. I’ll give you a number.”

He’s enjoying this. I can hear it.

“It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar repair.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He moves around the island, in no hurry at all. There’s nothing between me and that towel now. “Come check your meter, Dante. Every day. I’ll be here.”

The way he says it, it isn’t about the meter. I keep my hand on the doorframe and my eyes on the cabinet. I pull out of the cul-de-sac without checking the rearview mirror. The mirror has bare-chested, barefoot Levi in it, and I need both hands and my head for the road.