Page 35 of Salvatore

But here I am.

In Salvatore Costa’s Porsche.

Being driven God knows where, to be told God knows what.

All because he said something that implied something that might not even mean anything at all.

Obviously, sliding into his car was a bad idea. But I went willingly in the hopes my compliance would buy me brownie points and some extra time to figure out what’s happening with Liv.

It’s not like I actually feel in danger.

Not entirely, anyway.

Despite the intimidation, there’s something about him that’s non-threatening.

Given past experience, I can typically tell when shit is about to turn south, and although I’m paranoid about what he might know, I don’t feel like my death is imminent.

Then again, maybe I’ve reached the height of psychosis. Carlo’s death probably triggered some sort of breakdown. I could be mid-mental collapse, straddling the line between reality and being completely balls-to-the-walls crazy.

“So, where’s this place of yours?” I ask, hoping for a clue to what my future holds. If we’re headed toward an industrial area or a construction site where I could disappear under tons of concrete, a girl might just start to hyperventilate.

“I have a townhouse near the harbor. It won’t take long to get there.” He pulls the car to a stop at a set of traffic lights.

I glance at the old Dodge beside us, the elderly driver taking in my sporty ride as if he knows the owner has a tiny dick. I wait until his eyes reach mine, then finger-wave with a smile.

“For someone who eagerly rejects men, you sure like to flirt,” Salvatore drawls.

“I’m not flirting.” I keep smiling at the old-timer who beams back at me. “I’m trying to make my last whereabouts known in case my face winds up on a milk carton.”

“Then maybe pick someone young enough to still have working memory.”

I roll my eyes as the light turns green, then I’m thrust back against the chair when Salvatore accelerates in a rush of horsepower. He breaks the speed limit in seconds, the noisy rev of the engine fueling my pulse for one block, then two, until eventually the car stops at another set of traffic lights, and he blasts the horn.

“Is that enough attention for you?” he asks.

I stare out my side window—at the kid holding his mother’s hand as they wait to cross the street, at the people in cars on the adjoining roads, all of them gawking at us.

“I guess so.” Is Salvatore Costa attempting to alleviate my concerns?

The light turns green and this time he takes off at a normal pace, as if allowing our audience to get a good look.

“You know witnesses can go missing too, right?” he asks conversationally.

Ah, okay. So this isn’t him alleviating anything. It’s him on a power trip. He wants me to know just how high above the law he thinks he is. How many people he’s willing to kill to keep his villainous lifestyle.

How delightful.

I open my mouth, about to tell him how charming his insight is, when my cell vibrates in my hand.Livis illuminated on the screen.

I dump my coffee in the cup holder and rush to connect the call, anxiety and relief tag-teaming me. “Liv?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t handle the wake yesterday so I left, but I didn’t take my cell. I should’ve called?—”

“It’s okay.” It’s seriously not okay, because now this impromptu trip in a murderer’s car is all for nothing. “Where are you?”

“At work. I wanted to take care of?—”

“Are you safe?” I cut her off.

---