Page 24 of His Passerotta

Then she surprises me.

“My earliest memory is standing beside my mother while she stuck a knife into her ex-boyfriend’s tire. She used to shoplift using my brother’s diaper bag and would have my sister and I fight and knock things off the shelves in grocery stores as a diversion so she could slip money from donation jars into her purse.”

My body turns toward her while I listen intently.

“She was murdered, and because she was a criminal, the police didn’t care. Didn’t even look for her killer, just assumed it was a drug deal gone wrong and closed the case. My sister moved away, and that left me and my brother to follow in her footsteps. After my third offense, I went to prison for theft when I was twenty. I did two years and when I got out, I had to fight to get custody of my brother back. By then, he’d already joined a gang and went so far down a hole that I’ll never be able to pull him out of it.”

She opens her eyes and turns to me, a glossy sheen over her irises. “I say this to make it perfectly clear to you that speaking to the police isn’t anything I will ever do. Disgust for snitches runs as deep in my bloodline as it does in yours.”

A tear slips from her eye, and I can’t help myself. I brush away the drop with my knuckles and lean toward her, holding my lips up to keep them from sinking into a frown.

She’s convincing. I fully believe that if I let her go, she’d never go to the police. The issue is, the police aren’t the only problem. The Grucos aren’t the only problem.

She wasn’t just spying on me, she was spying on Maksim and Finn, and therefore the Russians and Irish. They’ll want her taken care of, if not dead then drugged up and put on the street as one of our whores. She leeched herself to our world the second she chose to listen in on it, and no assurance, no sob story could ever change that.

But it does change things for me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, the intensity in her eyes making me wonder if she can see the uncertainty I feel. “But I can’t let you go. Not until I find a way to sort this out.”

Her chest, puffed out in anticipation, sags with her sigh, like I’m her savior once again. Guilt settles in, and I have to look away.

She has more faith in me than I have in myself.

5

BAILEY

I don’t remember taking in a breath so large, but the one I let out seems to take my soul with it.

I’m okay.

I’m okay.

Anthony runs a hand through his honey blond hair before standing from the black leather sofa.

“I need a drink,” he says without meeting my eyes. He walks to the kitchen, visible in his open-floored apartment, before rummaging through a cabinet for a glass.

The sweat on my palms suddenly becomes unbearable, so I wipe them on my jeans, my gaze drifting around the room.

I’m still in shock, lingering fear numbing my limbs, but my senses are coming to life by the second.

He isn’t going to kill me.

I’m okay.

Sludge feels like it’s sliding down my throat, and I swallow to help it down. Anthony returns, two glasses in hand, and carefully sits beside me, his hand outstretched with a tumbler. I swirl the deep, brown liquor, inhaling the scent more out of habit than anything else. I can’t tell what it is by smell alone, but if I had to bet, I’d say it’s expensive. Anthony Gruco has good taste.

My lips purse at that thought. I’m still acting like I know him. I don’t.

I bring the glass to my lips and taste what I think for a moment is tequila but then register the smokey undertone.

“Mezcal,” I say, a hint of curiosity in my tone.

Anthony’s head tilts my way, but he still doesn’t meet my eyes. He downs the rest of his drink then sets it on the table.

“I thought you people liked vodka.”

“That’s the Russians,” he says, his voice flat. “Some of them. We’re not all the same.”

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