Page 98 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

I think about unpacking, but that idea gets the cold shoulder, too. I rub my hands into my temples, like I can press the thoughts of Ren flat and sweep them under some locked door in my mind. My eyes linger on the briefcase. The last thing he gave me.

I already have a sense of what will be in it.

I open it up, unsurprised to find thick straight rows of hundred-dollar bills, still banded from the bank. But there’s also a manila envelope, thick with some kind of documents and a letter, crisply folded on top of it all.

I touch the edge of it.

Over the past few years, I have become an expert at resisting temptation. Ignoring the things I can’t afford. Crossing off wants and focusing on needs. But tonight, I brace myself, and I give in.

I unfold the letter and I begin to read.

31

Ren

I have stops to make. People to visit. Old enemies to see. I think I’ll start with Marlow. Grant Nadia one last wish.

Dellucci, that’ll be a death trap. Atlas, I don’t know enough about him yet to hunt him down, and I only have a week to do it. I’ll take my satisfaction where I can get it.

Marco brings the car around like always. I open the back door. The barrel of a pistol greets me, gripped by a stranger’s hand. I hadn’t thought to check. Goddamn blacked-out windows.

There are a few places that are sacred to a man, and his own car is supposed to be one of them.

My pockets are turned out. My phone goes to the sidewalk, and then my gun. I am patted down a second time, then once they’re sure my claws are clipped, I’m motioned into the backseat. I sit.

The gun nuzzles up against my ribs like an animal looking for affection, pointing sideways through my ribcage and toward my heart.

Its beat is slow and steady, even now.

I just got comfortable with how being a muscle spasm from death feels, so it doesn’t bother me. Maybe that’s part of the problem, really. Maybe anxiety is a survival instinct and my lack of it is a detriment. I never thought about it that way, but if I was anxious, I probably wouldn’t have thrown that door open all carelessly, as if there was nothing unusual that could have been waiting on the other side. I would have been more cautious. More suspicious.

Crossing that sidewalk and getting in this car was something I did every day. That’s where caution falls through the cracks. Just like my parents, leaving their window open during the summer. Old, comfortable habits that wind around your neck and hang you slowly, before you ever realize that you’re choking. Stupid.

My gaze slides to the screen between me and the driver. It’s tinted, but I can tell it’s not Marco.

“What did you do with my driver?” I ask. My voice still sounds flat, which is good. Marco is a good man; the sort of man to go down fighting.

“Left him sleeping on the concrete,” the driver answers. A familiar voice. Atlas.

“Not so neutral now, are we?” I ask, leaning back as if I am still being chauffeured to wherever I want to go.

“Still neutral. I just watched you long enough; I’ve been ready to cash this check for a while.”

I feel strangely calm about that.

“How much is Dellucci offering for me?”

“You? Nothing that I’ve heard of. The girl? A cool 250k.”

My tongue runs over the sharp edge of my teeth. I taste anger.

“Must not be too heartbroken about that $35,000 he lost then, is he?”

Atlas grins, keeping his eyes ahead.

“You should know better than anybody, Caruso. There are rational men and there’s grieving men. And those two categories don’t overlap.”

I watch where we’re going, but I don’t see much. I consider thinking about regrets—I guess that’s what people do—but I just think about her. The same loop again. The muggy taste of a big city summer, which is always better the way you remember it than how it really is. My arm hooked on her shoulders, my mouth against her temple, her fingers pinching me on the waist, and her teeth pinching me on the lip. Goddamn little pincushion before I proved myself to her.

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