I don’t even want to know.
“Here.” I offer Saint some disinfecting wipes soaked with alcohol. “For your knife.”
For a long time, he just stares at the wipes. When he eventually lifts his eyes to mine, they’re fiery. Lava-hot whiskey.
One, two, three, four intense heartbeats, and then he smiles, like a high-stakes poker player with the winning hand. “Grazie, mia regina.”
~
“CAKE ORDER ATLuciFlora Apartments. A205. Red velvet, no icing. Wax candles with aroma. Clean and smooth.”
Saint flips the burner phone shut and drops it in the cup holder.
A cleanup call…
Only when we’re out of the complex and in traffic do I ask, “How old was the little girl he assaulted?”
“Eleven.”
Sickening.Good riddance to that scum. “Do you have any information on how she’s holding up after that?”
“I can’t. I can’t know. That kind of thing makes me…” A feral sound rumbles low in his throat. “She is being taken care of. I’ve asked for no updates.”
Understandable. “The two women who reported him are your sex slaves, right?”
“Hands,” he corrects. “And yes.”
“Did he not know they’re…well,yours?”
“For their own safety and livelihood, no one knows they are connected to me,” he explains. “And they aren’t ‘mine.’ They are free-functioning humans withcontractual obligations.”
Whatever you want to tell yourself…
“So, are mafia men typically like that? Think they’re above consent and can harass and assault women as they please?”
“There are bad seeds everywhere,” he replies. “That one was from a different family, not ours. I’ve been providing the other families with legit jobs and positions to keep them from whoring themselves out to the cartel. My goal is to draw a solid line between the cartel andla famigliehere. But they’ve been mingling with the cartel for so long that the majority have forgotten the front-facing decorum ofLa Cosa Nostra—culture, class, respect, sophistication. It’s just taking a while to weed out the repugnant swine like that one.”
There’s both rigid austerity and profound passion in his voice. Like a disappointed but loving father. Seems he cares about that side of his life a lot more than he lets on.
Making hay while the sun shines, I ask, “What’s that whole ‘carving a cross on the forehead’ thing all about?”
“Every soul deserves a second chance. The cross is my prayer on their behalf.”
I stare at his side profile. “What kind of fucked-up hypocritical religious psycho are you?”
He’s unfazed. “I hope the person who kills me prays for my soul as they send me off.”
The thought of him dying makes me queasy. “You can casually kill a man in the middle of the day without a second thought and ‘pray for his soul’ while you’re at it, but you won’t have sex before marriage? I don’t understand your priorities, dude.”
“Death is death and will take you, sinner or saint. Sex is sacred, vulnerable, and a narrow pathway to your soul.”
I give up. There’s no understanding this man. None.
Roughly fifteen minutes later, when he’s navigating toward Silver Lake instead of the airport, I remind him, “LAX.”
As expected, he ignores me.
I’ve got about as much intention of going to Ibiza as he does of letting me go. But I won’t make this easy for him. “Airport, Saint. My man’s waiting for me.”
