“Nice.”I nod, unfazed.“Very convincing.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face before he reins it in.
We hold each other’s gaze across the table, snacking in silence, tension thick, edged.
Stefano has always been my blind spot.Reading him is a challenging feat.With most people, I can assess them in seconds, finding the exact angle to work my way in and win them over.But Stefano’s a brick wall.Whether it’s my own bias clouding my perception, or him being deliberately guarded and misleading, I can’t tell.Either way, he throws me off, leaving me no choice but to wing it and see where I land.
I break first.“What’s that you’re eating?”
His eyes narrow slightly, as though he doesn’t trust the question.“Dark chocolate almond butter.”
“Homemade?”
“Cora spoils me.”
I pick up another half-eaten pastry and hold it out.“Can I?”
I’m expecting a smirk, a taunt, a flat-out no.Instead, he dips the spoon, scoops up a generous dollop, and slathers it over my pastry.
See?He throws me.Every damn time.
As I take a bite, mumbling how rich and chocolatey the almond butter is, Stefano pulls out his phone.A few swipes later, he slides it across the table.
A video.
I shove the rest of the pastry into my mouth, dust off my fingers, and hit play.
The bartender from Liquid Blue is tied to a chair, her face streaked with tears.Across from her, Lorenzo looms, his voice low but firm as he questions her.
Between choked sobs, she confesses: A month ago, someone slipped an envelope under her door.Inside were photos of her eight-year-old son back in Santo Domingo, taken as he walked to and from school.Along with them, a note telling her to follow instructions, or he disappears.
The instructions were simple.Every Thursday, a package would be left in her locker at work.Her job was to make the exchange.She swears she never asked questions.Never looked inside.Never knew who was pulling the strings.All she knows is that every morning, another envelope arrives.New photos.Fresh threats.A silent warning of what would happen if she spoke.
“What do you think?”Stefano asks when the video ends.“Is she lying?”
“You want my opinion now?”I raise a brow.“From this little ‘nobody?’”
“I heard you’re good at reading people.”His stare drills into me.“So, tell me, is she lying?”
Ah.That means he’s actively blocking me out.Probably throwing me on purpose.
“Does she have a son in Santo Domingo?”I ask.
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure of that because you run deep background checks on all your employees,” I state.“So youknowshe’s not lying about that.”
He tilts his head.“You don’t think she’s lying about anything?”
“I didn’t say that.”I pick up another pastry and take a slow bite.“She’s telling the truth about why she did it.But she’s definitely lying about not knowing what’s in those packages.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I know he’s listening.
“As women, we’re wired to be inquisitive.To seek answers to questions we don’t even realize we have.And if those packages were in the privacy of her locker, that gave her plenty of alone time to peek.”
“Hm.”He taps the spoon against the rim of his jar.“How much peeking do you do when you’re at my house?”
“You’re not interesting enough to tempt me to peek.”
