Page 21 of As Devils Love

I’m not oblivious to the notion that the mutt nipping at her heels is why Fiametta is so docile. Or maybe, she heard I killed the two men who were meant to be her security for her evening out and she doesn’t want to risk anything.

Have I scared you, my pretty little plaything? Good. You should be scared.

I’m starting to understand how Mark feels during our stakeouts. Staring at nothing and hoping it will blossom into something exquisite. Where’s the thrill? The excitement? Fiametta has made this hunt pure tedium.

Until now.

I had her painted as a spoiled rich kid. Happy to forego her daddy’s love and affection, as long as her wallet never ran dry. There sure as shit aren’t enough customers going to her store for that place to afford the luxurious lifestyle she leads.

But I’m a big enough man to admit when I’m mistaken. And watching her head into a soup kitchen isn’t the kind of thing a daddy’s princess would do willingly. The grimace on her mutt’s face is what makes me think it’s her decision, more than a forced act.

Well, it isn’t going to break any records, but I’ve found a nugget of gold after seventy-two hours of tailing Fiametta.

And I’m deeply intrigued.

Once Fiametta, Simone and their guard dog are inside the building, I casually make my way across the street. A small line of New York’s starving has started forming along the front wall, but I’ll need a few more faces around before I can make my move.

It’s a big risk to go inside, when Fiametta is already showing signs of knowing she’s being followed. They’re subtle, but obvious, like when she casually glances over her shoulders and scans her surroundings, trying to appear nonchalant. To a layman, her tactic may come off as uncaring observation, but I’ve made enough blunders for her to stay extra vigilant. No doubt, the one outside her store was my biggest.

And Lorenzo pretty much sealed it up, by placing Tomas Bernardi, the Napoli Family’s thumb-sucking troglodyte of a second-in-charge, on her personal security detail. She’s too smart to think he’d do it purely for anin-casesituation. If he didn’t smell blood in the water, he wouldn’t have given her the best he could offer.

But I need to get inside that soup kitchen. I want to see her doing this honest task with my own two eyes before I believe it. Until then, I refuse to completely believe she’s anything other than a spoiled princess.

I wait against the side of the building for the better part of an hour, watching dark-gray clouds forming in the early evening sky. The line has gone from ten early birds to what must be a hundred or more broken and beaten souls. I look among the newer arrivals for the biggest guy I can find, focusing mainly on the back of the line. When I spot him, I raise the biker mask over my face and approach him at a casual saunter.

“Give me your coat,” I demand as soon as I reach him. He’s wearing a filthy long coat, with an enormous tear running from the right pocket down to its hem. The reason the coat caught myattention is its high standing, wide collar. Along with my mask, it should provide ample anonymity.

“My coat?” He grabs the lapels and tightens them to his chest. “No. I can’t. It’s gonna be cold soon.”

Too much time spent with Matteo has given me the luxury of ignoring pleasantries and explanations. But a bigger takeaway, which proves most useful in times like this, is that money talks.

“I’ll give you two grand for it.” I shove my hand into my pocket and draw out a neatly wrapped bundle of hundred-dollar notes. I couldn’t say how much is there, for certain, but it’s Matteo’s money. Let’s call it operational expenses.

I throw it at the guy’s feet and watch his widening eyes fall upon it.

“Why?” He asks, mid-strip.

“Give me the jacket. Take the money. And piss off.”

Why Fiametta’s working in a soup kitchen means anything is surprising, even to me. These people are meaningless to me. Life is full of choices and circumstances. You’ve been dealt a bad hand? Fight your way out of it. Giving up won’t garner my sympathy. But her being here has to mean something.

Maybe that she isn’t a piece of shit like her old man.

Instead of handing me the coat, he tosses it at my face as if it’s some grand distraction. Once removed, I see him running down the street and my money is gone from the ground.

If there’s one thing I can respect about these folk, it’s that trust is hard to come by. Accepting a deal isn’t as easy as saying yes and taking what you can, leaving nothing behind. I shed my leather jacket and toss it onto the ground. Had my new friend waited a moment, I’d have given it to him along with the money.

And just like that, when someone else collects it, I’ve helped more people in one night, than I have in years.

Is my pretty little playing rubbing off on me?

Then it’s back to waiting. This is the kind I don’t mind. There’s purpose behind it. I’m not just sitting in my car, following some chick around.

Before long, a rotund man at the front door, who’s holding a cane in one hand and a bible in the other, ushers me inside.

“God bless you,” he says.

“And you.” How else am I supposed to respond to that?

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