“You and Sante may have found some common ground,” I tell him quietly, “but don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says back without hesitation.
“Excellent. Then I’d say we’re done here.” I let myself out of the office and leave the station. It’s time to end this day, though I still need to make a few calls once I’m home. My brother will want to hear about my visit with Detective Malone, and while I’m not crazy about reporting to him, he’s my boss. My oath to him and the family will always outweigh my personal preferences.
As soon as I get back to my new apartment, I call Sante. He and I are on equal footing as far as the Moretti family goes, so I wouldn’t normally report to him, but he’s also my closest friend and first cousin. We spent four years in Sicily together, including a hellish month-long stay in a pig barn. That was the worst of it by far, but the experience bonded us. He’s more a brother to me than my own.
To be fair, Renzo isn’t a bad person. The six-year age difference between us didn’t help our relationship, but more than anything, we think nothing alike. And because he doesn’t understand me, he thinks something’s wrong with me—that I’m untrustworthy. That’s how it was when I left for Sicily, and nothing seems to have changed since my return.
I take a long, deep breath and make the call.
“Yeah?” he answers curtly.
“I talked to Sante’s cop buddy Malone today—he wanted to talk to Sante, but Sante was busy. Malone’s working the murder investigation of those Russians. Thinks it’s The Reaper and wanted to know if we had any info on the guy.”
“You tell him anything?” His question reeks of accusation.
I angle my head to stretch my tensing neck as I respond. “Not really. He was hoping the guy was a random serial killer. I corrected his misapprehension.”
“We don’t know enough about this Reaper character to share what wedoknow, especially with the cops. We don’t need to be sharing shit with them.”
“I wouldn’t have shared anything at all had it not been for Sante.” My words have bite, and while I meant to hit back on his mini lecture—as if I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut—I realize too late that I’ve inadvertently thrown Sante under the bus in the process. “Look,” I continue with a sigh. “I just thought you’d want to know it looks like that job was linked to The Reaper, if you hadn’t already confirmed it with your own sources.”
Silence lingers across the line. I start to suspect the call dropped when he speaks again.
“You don’t always have to be so defensive with everything I say, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have to be defensive if you didn’t constantly doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt you. I just can’t predict your thoughts, so I prefer to clarify.” He’s sounding more exasperated. I’m not great at interpreting emotions without the aid of facial expressions, but I know his tone. I’ve heard him use it on me more times than I can count.
“You know what they called me back in Sicily? They called me Moret Silenziosa because my targets were six feet under before they ever knew death was coming, and you think I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut where the cops are involved?”
“I think you’ve been gone for years, and I hardly know you anymore.”
“Let’s not pretend you ever did,” I counter with finality. “I didn’t call to argue, Renzo. Malone is working the triple murder. You want to keep tabs on it, get with Sante.” I end the call without waiting for a reply. I try to treat Renzo like the don thathe is, but sometimes old habits die hard. In some respect, he’ll always be my too-perfect older brother.
I pour myself a glass of wine to help me relax and sit on the sofa where I can enjoy the panoramic view of the skyline. The view overlooking the East River was the main reason I bought the place. Now that my designer has almost wrapped up renovations, it’s starting to feel like home. Having a sanctuary to retreat to at the end of the day is essential for me. I need an escape from all the sights and sounds of the city. Just knowing this oasis of calm is here helps me stay focused on my day.
In Sicily, things were more serene. I didn’t have to ground myself the way I do here in the city. I could have stayed there forever, but I’m not upset we returned to New York. It’s good to see my mother, and I know that being here has made Sante happy, though the process of getting to this point was a mystery to me. He was so fucking fixated on Amelie the whole time we were in Sicily.
As someone who has battled the pull of compulsions and hyperfixation, I know what it’s like to need things a certain way, but what I couldn’t understand was how he knew he needed her when he’d never known life with her before. How was he supposed to know she was what he wanted? I need the silverware in my drawer to be neatly stacked and the shades on my windows to be at precisely the same level. I need to keep a detailed schedule to know what my day will entail. In the morning, I eat six scrambled eggs, one lightly ripened banana, and a slice of sourdough toast with real butter because that gives my body the fuel it needs for me to operate at optimal energy levels. These things give my life order, and when they’re lacking, I feel unbalanced. Craving certainty and control makes sense to me. Fixating on the concept of a woman you hardly know like Sante did is so foreign to me that I can’t comprehend it.
I slide my hand into my pants pocket and retrieve a small bundle of pink satin fabric. I glare at it as if I expect it to explain what the fuck it’s doing in my pocket.
It’s hers. The woman from the police station.
I picked it up after she stormed away, and I still don’t understand why, except the second the silky fabric touched my skin, I couldn’t let it go. It’s one of those hair ties girls wear with bunched fabric surrounding the elastic band. I can’t remember what they call the damn things. It’s a vibrant shade of pale pink, if that is such a thing. It suits her—delicate yet bold.
The woman was completely mystifying. I’ve never seen someone so uniquely beautiful and such a mess. Everything I said upset her. I’m used to that. I often rub people the wrong way. Usually, it works out because I’m not much of a fan of people outside of a select few.
So why am I still thinking about her?
I can’t stop wondering what had her so frazzled. I don’t normally concern myself with the people around me. I’ve asked myself repeatedly why I even stopped to help her collect her things. Why I snagged her ID from her phone case when I handed the phone to her. I was oddly intrigued, and I don’t understand it.
Then I do something completely unfathomable on impulse and sniff the pink satin fluff. The light, feminine scent of beauty products fills my lungs and shoots a bolt of lust straight to my balls. They pull so damn tight with need I have to shift in my seat to relieve the ache.
My fingers reflexively clench tight around the scrap of fabric. Wild lions couldn’t tear the damn thing from my grasp. It’s like my hand has grown a mind of its own and claimed ownership. I don’t think I could force myself to throw the damn thing away if I wanted to. And I don’t. Quite the opposite. I feel an overwhelming need to keep this ridiculous memento.
