Page 35 of Petrichor

The blue suit would look nice with the light fog-gray shirt *smiley face*

A pigeon almost stole half of my sandwich from the balcony *flying angry bird*

Thank you for the gelato I found in the freezer *heart drooling face* And if it wasn’t for me…oops.

How about getting a guard cat? *cat pawing at a pigeon*

I told him to stop and left the crushed Post-its on the coffee table for him to see, but he keeps writing them. So damn infuriating, even more when I get back home and find myself looking for them. I also have trivial thoughts suddenly popping inside my head, like what is he doing? Is he smiling at nothing as usual? Tilting his head to the side and biting the corner of his lips while working on a flashy piece of underwear?

I don’t see him in the morning before I leave. Trying to get some information about Enzino and Coretti’s deal while I continue doing my usual bone-breaking tasks for the family keeps me out of my penthouse all day. So I watch him, checking his movements inside my apartment through the security cameras, and every time I find new aspects about him to consider pretty. The enthusiasm he puts into everything he does, those small smiles as he brushes his fingers over every surface, the way his nose turns up as he smells something in the air. His narrow waist wrapped in that thin chain and the colorful stripes of his bras. It’s odd and confusing, because all jokes aside, I’ve never thought about fucking a guy. Although, I’ve found myself focusing on his lips a couple of times with impure images filling my mind.

Jo went to search Fly’s place a few days ago. He went through Fly’s stuff while he was busy cleaning my place and didn’t find much. Only the bare essentials. Fly’s bag is a flea market mess, while his room lacks even the bare essentials. No bed. No TV. No picturesor knick-knacks. A bookborrowedfrom the Boston library—long overdue—on sewing, a mug with a cat on it, a small carton of milk, and a bag of cocoa powder in the fridge.

I put a tracker inside his bag, but Jo keeps following him at night—like he’s been doing since Fly started working for me. Carlo went to have a chat with his greedy landlord—who knows fuck all about Fly—and yesterday, Jo overheard Fly’s intention to move out.

Where is Fly going to go? Is he running away? Going back to Boston? Jerry will stay put for a few more days; his injuries need more time to heal. Who else does Fly know? That friend of his…

Luca sniffs loudly, reminding me of his idiotic question.

I run a hand through my hair. “Fuck off.”

“Already doesn’t put out? What did you do?”

“I’m not into men, Luca!”

“Tell it to the way your eyes undress him every time he’s around.”

“What the fuck?” I mutter.I don’t fucking do that.I merely study his body to get a peek of the lingerie he wears. I’m curious. It’s turning into a compulsion I can’t resist; my eyes keep searching for a dash of color, a strip of fabric. I don’t want Luca to know about it, though. I don’t want him to imagine Fly’s lean body wrapped in sexy underwear. Why? Fuck if I know or care.

“Denial. Really, Marco?Non me lo aspettavo da te.”

“How about a punch to your ugly face, do you expect that?”

“Carlo said Fly has stunning eyes,” Luca feels the need to let me know.

I look ahead at Carlo; his face is turned toward the window deliberately avoiding my glare, and I feel the sudden urge to smash it against the dash until I see blood.

“And why do you think I’d give a damn?” I let the words come out through my gritted teeth.

Luca snorts.

Stronzo! I stroke my face, feeling tired. I keep having the same dream at night. A memory of the evening I found out about Delia’s betrayal. I sometimes relive her death. I feel the excruciating pain in my side, seeing the bloody knife in her hand, hear the boom of my gun, then the last rattle of her lungs just before her eyes turned glassy and empty.

Lately, though, all I see is what happened before confronting her. Walking with those two beaten-up, malnourished kids outside the apartment. The big tree we took shelter under. The dying rain dampening our clothes. And them smiling, even though I could see the fear of the unknown on their faces. Their blurry faces. I forgot them, never knew their names, but I do remember the little kid with curious fingers and the older, fierce, brave boy brandishing the metal pipe.

I pushed their memory away together with what happened afterwards with Delia. So why am I dreaming about them now?

“Luca, do you remember Joseph Gordon?” The father of those kids who died that night.

He whistles. “The junkie shitbag. That was a long-ass time ago. Nine—ten years? Why?”

“Nothing important.” There’s no point in thinking about it and trying to dig up the past. I never heard about those kids again. Which is a good sign.

The car halts under my building. Carlo gets out, carrying the grocery bags.

Luca does as well. “I’m coming up for a drink,” he invites himself as he waves at Diego—he just wants to check the Fly situation and fuck with me some more.Lo stronzo.

I turn to Jo. “Follow Fly when he leaves the building and let me know where he goes as soon as he does.” I don’t wait for his reply, since I know he’ll do what I order and make my way inside the building.

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