Page 13 of Fallen Rook

“See you Sunday, Grams.”

I turned my work phone on as I slid into my Audi and popped my seat belt on. I’d forgotten to check it when I woke up, but that hardly mattered, because anyone who needed me urgently knew my private number.

An explosion of text messages detonated on my screen, the bubbles sliding in quick succession.

I reared my head back, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The first text had come through at two thirty in the morning.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Hiiiiiiii

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Don’t ask me how I got your number.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Okay, I’ll tell, but only because you’re twisting my arm. I asked Tierney to send me a pic of your business card.

Tierney was his sister-in-law, and a woman I’d previously tried to recruit to turn on the Ferrantes. She was the closest I’d ever gotten to imprisoning the brothers. Ultimately, though, she chose staying loyal to the crime family. Specifically to Achilles, a.k.a. the one who didn’t bother masking his psychopathy.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: So…about last night…

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: That was fun, right?

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I wouldn’t mind doing it again.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I can still taste you in my mouth.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Was that cinnamon gum I detected? I hope it was sugar-free. I’m cutting carbs.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Anyway…next time you stalk me you should come say hi

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: You definitely cleared up a lot of my confusion.

More messages incoming. Jesus, he was typing as I read. It wasn’t even eight in the morning and he’d already said more words than I exchanged with people I worked twelve hours a day with.

I shouldn’t have saved his ass.

Interfering in mobster feuds was like a National Geographic photographer saving a zebra from a lion in the African wilderness. No point in delaying nature from taking its course. Survival of the fittest was the rule out there, and if the Camorra’s enforcer was dumb enough to get his dick sucked in an alleyway, banged in the center of Manhattan by some random, it was only a matter of time until he got killed.

What was I thinking, killing that idiot, who I bet both my balls wasn’t actually named Cash?

If this went sideways, I could lose my job, and possibly get into a shit ton of legal trouble. Not to mention kiss that counterterrorism transfer goodbye.

More messages flashed down my screen.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Look, I figured you wouldn’t be caught dead socializing with me, and I’m totally on board with casual.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: And we don’t have to talk about work when we hook up. It’ll be strictly about sex, then we can go back to hating each other.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Like Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Ever watched the movie? That was Brad Pitt in his PRIME.

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: I mean, not that I wouldn’t tap that today, but…

Maybe Enzo Ferrante: Sidetracking. Anywho. So, yeah. Text me. Or…give me a call, since old people like that shit better. You have my number now.

Astonishingly, he was typing even more.

He was so sloppy I couldn’t believe I still hadn’t nailed his ass. Professionally speaking, of course.

The man-child had no social decorum whatsoever.