Page 71 of His Dark Vendetta

“I can honestly say you’re the last person I expected to open that door. And I pride myself on not being surprised when it comes to my job.”

“We both know you haven’t been very successful at your job now, don’t we?”

The sinister bend to his narrow mouth belied his affected laughter. “Is Mr. Moretti home?”

“No.”

Growing up in the mob, I knew how to deal with nosy outsiders—one-word answers. Uncle Paddy and Da had me well-trained. Don’t offer any more information than the necessary minimum. Make them work for their dirt.

“Do you know when he’ll be home?”

“No.”

His ingratiating smile turned menacing. “Fine. I’ll ask you my questions instead.”

“You can try.” I folded my arms across my chest.

Agent Johnson had been trying to dig up dirt on Marco for as long as I’d worked at Terme, always hanging around, chatting up employees in the hopes of grooming a rat. But I hadn’t been lying—I wasn’t a rat no matter which side of Boston I was on.

“You live here?” he asked.

“No, but you already know that.”

“Then, why are you here?”

“None of your business.”

His eyes travelled down to the ridiculous top Luca brought back from The Dollhouse.MILKSHAKEwas written in hot pink block letters across my chest. The neckline of the tank top was slit such that strip club breasts would have stretched the opening and displayed serious cleavage. On me, the fabric hung loose, revealing only a suggestion that breasts existed.

He gave me a smarmy grin. “Were you here last night?” he asked, the innuendo thick.

“Yes.” True and noncontroversial. You had to pick your battles with these people. Know when to own up and when to pull back.

“Was Mr. Moretti here last night?”

And there it was. The real reason he was standing on Luca’s front porch.

Regardless of what Luca had done—to me or last night—Agent Johnson wasnoton my side. He wasn’t on anyone’s side but Agent Johnson’s. The wrong answer could cause a lot of trouble.

“Yes,” I said.

“You sure about that?”

The best way to handle the bait of an open-ended question? Another open-ended question.

“Don’t you think I’d know if the other half of the bed was empty?” I raised an eyebrow.

He narrowed his eyes. “Was Luca Davide Moretti with you here last night? All night?”

“Define all night.”

The aggressive growl of a Ferrari wedged itself into our conversation.

“Don’t play games with me, Ms. Connelly. You won’t like the outcome.”

“No one’s playing games,Agent. I can’t answer your question if you refuse to be specific. Are we talking about sundown to sunup? When I changed into my pajamas until the time my alarm went off? Define. All. Night.”

“You’re stalling.”

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