Ah, thus the mention of their families being close. “I see.”
“We may not have dated long, nor have I known Tommy for long, but I’ve known the Donatis for years. They truly are decent people.”
My answering nod is far from convincing, inadvertently prompting her to continue.
“Tommy may come off as harsh,” she offers quietly, “but that’s only because he interacts a little differently than some people. These guys aren’t the type to go to doctors or therapists, but if I had to guess, I’d say Tommy is neurodivergent in one way or another. You can’t jump to conclusions where he’s concerned, that’s for sure.”
I consider how impeccable he keeps his apartment—the way he insisted on cleaning the dishes himself—and the seemingly confrontational questions he asked the first time we met. I think about how hard it is for me to read him and the conflicting signals he sends, abrasive one minute and kind the next. It would all make a bit more sense in that context.
Then I remember what he said when he threw the knife at me.It’s not a good idea to make fun of the only man between you and the Russian mob.
If he is somewhere on the spectrum or otherwise cognitively outside the norm, he probably was teased all his life. Any possible mockery could easily be a trigger for him, and if he has trouble catching on to sarcasm, he could easily misinterpret it as a joke at his expense.
I’d been so caught up in his actions that I hadn’t truly focused on what he’d said. He thought I was laughing at him. I sigh heavily because while it shouldn’t affect the way I see him, it does. He was simply protecting himself. If anyone can relate to that right now, it’s me.
“I suppose I see what you mean,” I finally say to Amelie. “But he and Sante—all of you—you’re Mafia. That hasn’t changed.” I probably shouldn’t admit my fears, yet I want to trust her. To trust all of them. Having someone to rely upon would be a huge relief.
“True, but that means something different for every organization. I can’t promise you safety, but I know for certain that the Moretti family is nothing like the outfit Biba runs.”
For her, maybe. I’m a different story.
If the Russians are their enemies, they could also see me as the enemy.
“Do you think they’ll let me go?” I ask softly, scared there is no good answer to my question.
“I’m not sure,” she says hesitantly, her lips pursing. “But I’m confident they won’t turn you over to Biba without good reason.” She means her words to be reassuring, yet they’re far from it. Even she would have to agree that Biba’s paternal relationship to me would qualify as a good reason to turn me over. It’s enough to solidify my resolve to escape. I have to find a way out.
CHAPTER 9
TOMMY
Turn her over.Sante’s lucky we have so much history together, or I would have beaten him to a fucking pulp for suggesting such a thing. The savage rage that I felt was so overwhelming that it took all my willpower to keep myself under control.
Even now, I can still feel it slithering under the surface, waiting to strike.
My temper has always been a struggle, but this is unlike anything I’ve experienced in the past. Like a feral alternate personality has clawed its way to the surface and refuses to stay quiet. It could be problematic since I’m already a surly asshole with questionable morals.
Maybe I’m being hard on myself.
I always send my mother flowers for Mother’s Day. It may not fully offset the lives I’ve taken, but it’s got to count for something, right?
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
I’ve never in my life worried about my reputation or conscience. This is all her. My desire for her is twisting me inside out until I don’t recognize my own thoughts. All it took was the flash of a mental image of her green eyes framed in ugly purplebruises, rosebud lips split and bleeding, and my visceral reaction was instantaneous. Biba cannot get his hands on her. I won’t allow it.
Where does that leave me?
I have no fucking clue, except I know I need more information before I can make any decisions, which is the reason Sante is back at my place babysitting, and I’m meeting up with a colleague.
DiAngelo Farina is a capo that I would normally avoid because of his reputation for being impulsive and because he’s my brother’s closest friend. But in this case, he has contacts in unlikely places from doing time when he was younger. He’s my best shot at getting info on the Russians from the inside. I want to know if what Danika says is true—is Biba hunting a thief? What did she take? How badly does he want her? Does her nightmare have anything to do with why she’s on the run?
That last one should be irrelevant, but I can’t erase her haunting cries from my mind. Not even the best actress performs when she’s asleep. That anguish was real, and I want to know the source. Maybe it has nothing to do with Biba. It’s possible. It’s also possible that she’s in a whole lot more trouble than she’s letting on, and I want to know the truth.
It takes me a few minutes to track down DiAngelo. He told me which pier he’d be at, but that still left some ground to cover. I find him overseeing the docking of a giant cargo container ship. It’s important to be present even though we don’t play an active role in the daily functions of the ports—if only to make sure the workers know we’re watching.
The cranes slowly lumber overhead in preparation to unload while tugboats help position the rig for docking. It’s impressive to watch, no matter how many times I see it happen.
DiAngelo gives me a brief, dismissive glance when I stand at his side. “Gotta admit, you got me curious.”
