Page 116 of Love Him Like Water

“You cooking again?”

“Yeah.”

“On one condition then,” he said.

“Sure,” I agreed, having a feeling I knew where this was going.

“I get a plate.”

“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes at him.

After that, I offered him my list, then went about finding the right pots and pans, setting the table ahead of time, before getting myself showered and dressed before helping Elian bring in the groceries, and finally rolling up my sleeves and getting to it.

And, this time, there were memories of my mom, of course. Of her reminding me to always measure spices by the heart, to always remember to salt the pasta water, to take my time and enjoy the process.

But instead of sorrow, what I felt was gratitude. That I’d gotten the chance to learn these things at her side. And, because of that, I could one day do the same for my children.

I couldn’t tell you what time it was when I’d heard a popping noise in the hallway, or the strange thud. I’d been too lost in the idea of sitting across a table from Renzo again, from having more conversations like the one we’d had the night before. And, then maybe… not talking for a while afterward.

I’d tensed at the odd interruption, but when I’d heard the beep of the code being punched into the keypad, I felt my shoulders relax, imagining it was either Elian or Renzo trying to bring something inside.

I didn’t even think anything was amiss when it was neither of those men who moved into the apartment.

I knew this man too.

I’d met him at the one party I’d gone down to.

He’d been lurking around the pool table while I talked to one of the younger, more extroverted, men.

He had a more normal name, that much I remembered, even though that night was pretty vodka-soaked and wavy.

Christopher?

Matthew?

No, Michael.

This was Michael.

Renzo’s cousin.

Unlike my family, and most of the organized crime syndicates I knew of, Renzo’s crew wasn’t entirely built up of blood relatives at the top. He had capos with no blood relation to him. Like Cinna and Rico and, I was pretty sure, Dav.

As you got further down to the soldiers and associates, of course, there was even less blood relation. But that was true of my family as well.

Michael, though, Michael was an actual family member.

And I suddenly felt like maybe I should know more about him than I did.

Renzo had given me details about his childhood. His awful parents, his almost equally terrible uncles. But he’d never specifically mentioned his cousin, even though he’d likely told me about said cousin’s father.

“Hey, Michael,” I said as I fished the lid out of the can of tomatoes I’d just opened, setting it down on the counter, then gathering up the can to drop it into my pot.

It was his silence that had me looking over, wondering why he hadn’t said hello back.

And it was right then that I saw it.

The gun in his hand.

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