Page 225 of Safe Word

‘So what kind of gang are you?’ I asked in my most nonchalant tone, steering us past a group of tourists drunkenly debating something. ‘We talking Matrix hackers, or Al Capone in fake leather?’ I looked him up and down to drive the point home.

‘What kind of a fucking question is that? We’re brothers,’ he said, as if it were supposed to explain everything.

‘Don’t bullshit me, Inkblot.’

I had no idea where the nickname came from, but the creative demon in me perked up at the chance to dish it all back. Creativity was my niche, after all.

His head angled, bemused, but I kept going. ‘I ran a background check on you.’ My voice was flat, factual, almost bored, letting it settle between us like a lit match over gasoline. It didn't matter I was lying. ‘I know exactly what kind of shit you’re into.’

For half a second, there was nothing. Then—

He laughed. A deep, booming sound, as if what I had just said was the best joke he’d ever heard.

‘You got balls, Hollywood. But you ought to ask for your money back.’

He shook his head slowly, just for show. Yet I caught that fraction of a second where his focus drifted, as if he was actually considering what I’d said.

And that was all I needed.

Because regardless of his deflection, even he wasn’t sure where the line had been any more.

I pulled into my usual spot, but before I even killed the engine, a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. That ancient, animal instinct – the one that whispered when you weren’t alone, when eyes were on you – tightened around my throat like a noose.

It wasn’t just my imagination.

Matt’s face shifted in an instant, going from wary older brother to someone who looked as if he’d razed a city to the ground without blinking.

We exchanged glances, no words needed. Then, as one, we stepped out of the car.

I wished I’d brought a gun. But then again, I was more of a knife guy. Guns were neat. I liked it messy.

My eyes snapped to the spot where Travis had stood earlier. His spectre still lingered here – somewhere between memory and menace.

I scanned the pavement, searching for any proof he had been real, something tangible.

Rome’s street cleaners were relentless, scrubbing away the sins of the city before dawn. Maybe I was reaching. Maybe writing fiction had muddled my common sense—

Two cigarette butts. Black paper – they snagged in my gaze, laying on the concrete alongside the ashes of what was once my home.

Maybe luck didn’t hold a grudge, after all.

An image of Travis chucking the cigarette butt earlier flashed through my mind.

I crouched, pulling a tissue from my pocket before picking them up. The scent of burnt tobacco still clung to the filters, faint but there.

Matt watched me, his face unreadable except for the sharp lift of a brow – another DeLuca thing, I noted.

I pocketed the butts and turned towards the car again.

‘Your uncle might find a use for these,’ I muttered, tapping my jacket pocket.

It took Matteo a beat to catch on. But when it hit, he grinned – the exact kind of smile that made people cross the street.

Madmen and monsters.

That was the game now.

And not an entirely bad title for a book, either.