Page 7 of Eyes in the Shadows
Dimitri’s meeting with Rossi’s guys goes well, and the drop is set for tomorrow night.
He often poses as a buyer for this kind of thing, his size makes him believable as a thug and his accent is so thick that people make their own assumptions about who he works for. Wes arranges the meetup, Big D shows up and no one asks too many questions. When pressed, he told me once that he just rattles off the names of his extended family back home. Nine times out of ten, the other guys just pretend to know who he’s talking about to save face. That last time, Dimitri’s knives come out to play.
There really is no doubt in my mind that Jacob Rossi is our guy, even if we’ve only dealt with his underlings and he’s kept his face out of it so far. Public record alone told us he’s a real wife-beating, tax-evading, steal-from-the-poor piece of shit. Couldn’t cut it in New York, had to bring his brand of corruption here to be a big fish in a small pond.
But we don’t cut corners. We’d all agreed, even before the first job, that we wouldn’t skip the important first step that we call “Beyond a Reasonable Doubt.” Plus, anything we learn while we watch just helps us formulate our airtight plan for taking them out.
Recon is 90% of the battle. You can’t just kill a Kingpin. They’ve got seconds, thirds, fourths in command. You take out the top guy, chances are one of them is going to step in and pick up right where the boss left off. Or, they’ll make it real inconvenient for us by trying to avenge their leader or some shit. So, if the goal is stopping the smuggling operation, we need to take them all out. The research is what makes the hit—which only ever really takes a few minutes, in the end—go smoothly.
It’ll be a long two days, but it’ll be worth it. I stand and stretch, then bring the empty container over to the sink. At least I have space to move around—I’d go insane stuck in that cramped van like Wes. Though, he’ll head home tonight. Dimitri, too. It’s easier for me to just stay put. The more trips in and out, the higher the risk I’m seen.
I’m sorely tempted to pull out this couch and lay down where she does. Use her pillow. Roll in her sheets.
But I don’t. Because I’ve got a shred of impulse control left, apparently. I don’t wear scented deodorant or aftershave as a rule, but I don’t have to smell like Old Spice to leave something behind that she’d perceive. Then there’s the hair, fibers, etc. I’m careful. Fastidious, usually.
So, why do I want her to know I was here?
That same instinct telling me to eat her leftovers tells me to do it—sleep in her spot, leave part of myself behind so this place is marked, claimed, owned. Like it belongs to me and, by extension, so does she.
3
Eleanor
You know, in some ways, I’m kind of like an exterminator.
For two days, I’ve been clumsy and distracted, thinking about that exterminator. Mac.
There must be some biological imperative women have that makes us weak-kneed around tall men. Tall, muscly, gorgeous men who have great smiles and seem confident but not arrogant. And I’m such a sucker for a guy in glasses…
He’d been so nice about how late I was getting out of his way, hadn’t acted annoyed that I kept him from starting on time. And he’d stuck around almost like… like he wanted to talk to me. He’d laughed at my cheesy joke about the Ritz. Even the way he’d said “get dressed,” like it was an order, like he was so used to people doing what he said, that it didn’t even occur to him that he was telling me what to do. And the way he’d stared at my legs…
What the hell is a man with a face like that doing killing bugs for a living? He should be somewhere more people get to see him—plastered across billboards in his underwear or acting opposite some equally gorgeous woman in a Romcom.
With a face like that, I could get over the gross job.
God, I’m getting so far ahead of myself, I’m ten years down the road, married and watching our kids run around in mini gray jumpsuits that match his.
For the hundredth time, I replay what I remember of our interaction. He’d told me not to rush, asked if I had somewhere to stay, asked for a restaurant recommendation because he’s new to the area…
Yeah, Eleanor. He’s way into you.
I thunk my head against my cubby.
Who am I kidding? He was just being polite. Professional. Friendly, at most. He called mynamebeautiful, not me; and maybe it gave me butterflies because I’ve never really liked my nicknames, but he didn’t know that. He’d stared because I was half naked, in my pajamas. I’d probably shocked him, answering the door like that—and if he’d been interested, he would have asked for my number.
Besides, guys who look like him never show genuine interest in me. Someone with a face and body like that has options. Why would a man settle for ground beef when he had the option of a steak? Not that there’s anything wrong with ground beef—who doesn’t love a good burger?
Now I’m hungry. And my metaphor is falling apart.
I reach for the gauze wraps and band aids from the kit on the shelf. Once the cut on my finger is dealt with, I grab a pair of black disposable gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and tug them on as I head back into the fray. The dull roar of pots clanging on the stove, knives hitting cutting boards, flames spewing from the salamander oven, and people shouting at one another comes into sharp focus as I reenter the kitchen from the breakroom. Wednesday nights aren’t normally such a shitshow, but we had a walk-in table of 12.
“You’re cut, Ellie,” Chef Robert barks.
I whip my head around, knowing he’s talking about the schedule and not my finger. I can tell from intensity in his deep-set, bloodshot blue eyes that he’s in a mood. His chef hat is askew and there’s visible sweat on his face running down into the crease of his neck.
“What? But I still need to finish the risotto—”
He levels a finger at me. “That’s the second day in a row you bled on my floor and table five just sent back their scallops, hold the tomato compote. Does this look like you held the tomato fuckin’ compote?” he shouts angrily, tossing the perfectly plated dish into the trash. The whole thing.
