Page 5 of Murder & Mayhem

After an uncomfortable moment where he searches my eyes forsomething—something that I know he won’t find—he clears his throat, glancing around the otherwise empty space.

“Service is a bit slow, though.”

“No one’s coming to take your coffee order,” I tell him. “It’s just us.”

That statement draws his attention back my way, and after a moment, he leans back in his seat, getting comfortable as he rests one forearm on the table, his other arm sprawled along the back of the booth so it appears as though he’s taking up all of the space.

Nutterly Delicious is an ice cream parlor only a couple of blocks from my apartment. As far as I’m aware, it’s one of the only ones in all of Black Creek. Not because it’s particularly amazing, but because it’s really a front for money laundering. Satan’s Advocates used it, and so did the gang before them. Just like the Rejects, no doubt, are. Not that I actually asked Oliver or Cain. This meeting is off the books, and the last thing I need is either of them snooping around and asking questions before I’ve worked out my plan of attack.

I simply handed over a wad of bills half an hour ago when I walked in and told the pimple-faced kid behind the counter to take a long break. It’s not like he was particularly busy. This place is probably lucky to see a handful of customers a day. The only reason it’s still open is because of its usefulness. No one will look twice at the cooked books of a moderately successful ice cream parlor in the center of a busy city.

I mimic Enzo’s posture, leaning back in my seat as I casually assess him, noticing more differences with every passing second. He has truly shed his old persona, and he just sits there patiently while I get my first glimpse at therealEnzo—assuming that is even his real name. I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time. He’s both vaguely familiar and a stranger all at once. His tie is neatly knotted at his neck, and his hair is slicked back, no longer looking slightly ruffled and disheveled. Part of me wants to run my hands through it and muss it up… and I have no idea what the fuck to do with that desire.It’s only because it looks weird seeing it so neatly styled, I tell myself before pushing aside such ludicrous thoughts.

Looking away from his hair, I accidentally catch his gaze, the bright green of his irises holding me captive. Those eyes… they are exactly the same. Just looking into them, I can feel him probing at me, silently prodding me for information I don’t want to give him.

Irritated, I break eye contact, looking out the window while I reinforce my walls. Once I’m sure he hasn’t obtained any information I don’t want him to know, I return my attention to his face, feeling more at ease when I notice his expression more closed off than it was a second ago. Good. This isn’t old friends meeting for ice cream and a catch-up, it’s two people that don’t know or trust one another—two enemies on opposite sides of the battlefield—here to arrange a business deal.

Slotting his hand into his suit jacket, he slides a white envelope out of his inner pocket. I watch with hawk-like eyes as he sets it on the table and slowly pushes it toward me.

“What the fuck is that?” I demand, making no effort to take it. Iknowwhat it is, and I’m not fucking touching it.

“Your money—”

“I’m not taking that.” I shove it across the table toward him, ignoring his frown of confusion. Slowly, he reaches out and tucks it away in his pocket again.

“Why then—”

“You owe me a favor,” I cut over him with a hint of steel.

His lips flatten, most likely in annoyance. “In my defense, you never asked any questions. You never wanted to know—”

I bark a cold laugh. “I don’t give a shit who you are,Enzo—or whatever your name is.” My tone is arctic, giving away none of the roiling emotions brewing within me. Because the truth is, it does bother me. It bothers me that he never told me, but it bothers me even more that I never fucking asked. It has made me realize I’ve been running around with blinders on, only seeing the cash right in front of me and not stopping to question the source. How fucking naive and short-sighted of me. “I care that I nearly got blown to pieces because of you.”

No, I absolutely will not acknowledge the part I played on that day. Yeah, he tried to warn me, but he didn’t try hard enough as far as I’m concerned. Even when he knew he was putting my life on the line, keeping his identity a secret came first. However, I can’t exactly blame him for that. I’d have done the same if it was me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to use his guilt to get what I want.

I watch as the muscle at the back of his jaw works before he finally grinds out, “It is Enzo—my name.”

Yeah, sure it is, and in my spare time, I like to wear big, puffy dresses and pretend I’m a princess.

It’s a struggle to restrain my eye roll, because, of course, that’s what he’s going to say. He might have confessed he was an Antonelli, but he’s not dumb enough to give up his real name. To hand over something individually identifying that I could use to find out everything I need to know about him.

Anger flares in his eyes, clearly seeing that I don’t believe him. “Lorenzo,” he spits out, “is my full name, but Enzo to you.”

My eyes narrow as I try to determine if he’s telling the truth. Lorenzo could fit. It’s Italian enough to match the hint of swarthy skin I’ve admired far too frequently when he wore t-shirts to our meetings… but equally, it could be complete and utter bullshit. The problem is, I can’t tell, and really, does it matter?

“Alright,Enzo.” I put enough emphasis on his name to let him know I still don’t fully believe him, something that only pisses him off further. His hand twitches on the table, his fingers curling into a fist. For a moment, I tense in my seat, wondering what he’s planning on doing, but after a second, his shoulders drop and he relaxes, the anger ebbing away. However, when I finally look away from the hand that was coiled into a fist, looking ready to slam right through the table, I find his expression is even more shut down than it was before, and a heavy silence hangs in the air between us.

He tilts his head to either side as if working out the kinks in his neck while running his hand over his already straight black tie. It’s as though he’s trying to get control of himself, and I find it weirdly fascinating to watch. When he’s done, he fixes me with his probing gaze for a long moment before asking in a cool, calm, collected tone, “What’s the favor?”

While he appears guarded and unbothered, the simple fact that he’s asking means I’ve got him on the hook, and I give him a wolfish grin. “A job.” His brows furrow in confusion, but I don’t give him a chance to speak before continuing. “Specifically, a job in Belle Donne.”

Even though his eyebrows hitch in surprise, he continues with his carefully neutral tone as he asks, “What makes you think I can do that?”

My arms had been resting on top of the table, and crossing them in front of me, I lean in, closing the distance between us. “You’re a resourceful guy. I think you can find a way to make it happen.” With nothing else to say to him, I plant my hands on the table and stand. Holding his gaze, I state, “You have one week,” before sliding out of the booth.

He’s only a second behind me as he gets to his feet, blocking my way out of the parlor. My gaze catches his as I scowl at him. It doesn’t faze him, though, and instead, he meets my stare with a steadfast one of his own.

“I’ll get it done,” he states confidently. He takes a step toward me, forcing me to tilt my head back if I want to maintain eye contact as he eliminates the small space between us. His superior height has him towering over me, and he ducks his head, bringing his lips to my ear. “But don’t think for one second that you have the upper hand here. You should view my amiability as the apology I intend it to be. I’m not under your thumb, and I won’t bend to your commands. I may have a soft spot for you, Sawyer, but I don’t fear the Reaper.”

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