Page 22 of Petrichor

“He-he asked me not to announce him, said it was a surprise and-and he knew the elevator code.”

Fly must have gotten it the night he took me home. Merda! This is what happens when I let down my walls, even for a few hours. I should have never let him help me. Now I have to change the codes for the elevator and my place, as well.

“Since you don’t feel the need to use it, I’ll dispose of your tongue and shatter your jaw in a million pieces if you let another person come up to my apartment without notifying me. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

His lower lip is trembling as he keeps blinking. This is unacceptable. The rules of the building are fucking crystal, and it’s his damn job to follow them. I’ll have to talk to Diego and tell him to find a substitute.

“A nod will do,” I growl, raising my voice. He finally tilts his head in acceptance. Wanting to avoid witnessing a crybaby show, I head outside.

Carlo’s Ford is idling near the curb. I get in the backseat, and he starts driving.

“Go,” I order him, still so fucking irritated.

“Three hours ago, two of Coretti’s girls were working the sidewalk near a 7-Eleven in West Harlem when they saw some Enzino men going in. They heard raised voices and then saw a blond guy, who they confused for a girl, being dragged outside in a nearby alley and beaten up by one of them while the other two kept him still,” Carlo relates the events.

I was right, fucking cowards. This Jerry prick has his eyes on Fly, and he seems brutally determined. The fight we had at Rino’s must have angered him, especially if he found out we left together.

“And?”

“The girls were both taken on by a client and left in his car. Don’t know what happened next. But they recognized one of the men as Jerry Evans.”

Fly must have escaped somehow, or they let him go, since he came to see me.

“Where is he now?”

“Still in Harlem, outside a club called The Grace. Jo said they are having a talk with some Coretti men.”

Corettis and Enzinos together again. Seb is right, something is going on with those two families. “We need to tread carefully. Tell Jo to stay out of sight.”

Fifteen minutes later, Carlo parks the car two blocks from the club. There are a lot of people outside the flashy place, laughing, chatting loudly, and smoking. I follow Carlo toward the back of the club where Jo is waiting behind a building. There’s a couple going at it against the burned-out lamppost at the end of the block and a drunk guy slumped near the wall on the opposite side.

“Sir,” Jo greets me. He’s short and lean, his hair always tied in a low ponytail. Carlo and him are inseparable. His gaze moves to the group of people standing sixty feet away across the road. There’s Jerry, smiling at Aldo, one of Coretti’s lieutenants. It’s a pity we can’t hear what they’re saying, but if we try to get closer, they’ll spot us. And the last thing we need is for them to know we are onto them.

I lift my phone and take a picture of them to send it to Seb and Luca with the name of the club.

“Cameras?” I ask Jo.

“Only the one from the ATM on the left. Standard black and white.” So, if we keep our backs to it we are good to go.

After a couple of minutes Aldo leaves. I wait a little longer—to be sure he doesn’t see us—before making my way to Jerry and his men. He got upset I didn’t recognize him that night at Rino’s. He has all my attention now.

Jo and Carlo are following me. The sound of the hard soles of our leather shoes resounds on the street asphalt as we get closer. When the fuckers spot us, the two men beside Jerry try to go for their guns, but my crew have theirs already pointed. Good boys, I trained them well.

Jerry covers his nerves with the same stupid smirk he gave me the other night. He has a light bruise on his cheek and a scratch near his lip. I smirk imagining Fly giving him something back even though he was one against three. I look down at his hands. The knuckles on his right hand are red, the nails perfectly manicured. The transparent polish glittering under the streetlight enrages me as I remember the deep marks on Fly’s thigh.

I smirk back; there’s anticipation in my tone. “Hello again, dickhead.” A whole lot of anticipation at hearing his screams of agonized pain. “Let’s talk about Fly.”

Fly wakes up while I’m cleaning his face a couple of hours later. He tenses and then gasps.

“It’s you.” His voice sounds groggy. Striking pale eyes filled with sleep. He has very long blond eyelashes.

His smile is infused with relief. Like my presence makes him feel safe. Nobody has ever looked at me like that, I usually elicit fear, wariness, even repulsion. I grit my teeth against the warm sensation spreading inside me.

I know now that Jerry didn’t accept being rejected by Fly and was angered by the fact that he was seen leaving Rino’s with me. That’s why he beat Fly up. But this delicate, pretty, puzzling man has nothing to do with me. Not a thing. Breaking Jerry’s nose and hand might have given him another wrong idea about my relationship with Fly, but I set the record straight. While he owes me money, he’s untouchable. Afterward—if he’s still alive—Jerry can try whatever the fuck he wants.

Fly wraps his fingers around my hand holding the damp cloth, and I tense at the delicate, but firm touch. I’m not used to spontaneous, innocent touches. I’m a Mafia goon, rough and painful is what I’m familiar with.

Fly suddenly frowns and lets go as his fingers move to the cut on his lip. He looks at the blood on the tips and blinks a couple of times. His eyes move to his body under the sheets and then around the bedroom.

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