Page 42 of The Consequences of Love and Vengeance

She turns faster than a tornado, leaving before he says another word.

“Aren’t you Italian?” I question, already knowing the answer. But I’m curious. “How come you can’t speak Italian?”

“I’m American, born and raised. My father is the one from Italy, not me. I’m content with my one language, thank you.”

“Mona seems nice. Feisty. I like her.”

“Well, she’s Italian, of course she’s feisty. It’s in her blood. If she weren’t, I’d be worried.”

“I thought first and middle name calling was reserved for moms. You must be really close to your housekeeper if she gets that privilege.”

“She isn’tmy housekeeper.” His voice has more conviction than I would think it should. “Mona insists on taking care of things, and I insist on paying her. Neither one of us will budge on it. I get a clean house, and she gets to pick her granddaughter up from school every day instead of working an eight-to-five job like most moms who have to work.”

“Moms? But you said she’s the grandmother.”

“Long story. But to answer you, Mona is family. She’s been part of my family for as long as I can remember. She was the housekeeper when I was a kid. She and my mother were close. Best friends. Mona yelled at me a hell of a lot more than my mother did—if she ever did.”

His mother is dead. I read that as I researched as much as possible on Drago after meeting him the first time.

He looks at me, pausing as if he’s thinking. “Why did you assume she wasn’t my mother?”

“Because I already knew she passed away years ago.”

“Passed away is a term used for people who die from natural causes, not ones who are murdered, detective.” He looks at me as if I’m an enemy now—like he did last night. “Grab your things. I’ll take you home.”

Drago pulls me off the island where my feet land on the stained concrete floor.

Although he looks mad and even sounds mad, he’s gentle with me.

My mind wanders as I walk away from him and replay his words.

Murdered.

My research was thorough. I read the report and looked at a copy of the death certificate. His mother died from a pulmonary embolism.

Why does he believe she was murdered?

I bottle that question for later. It seems too important to forget.

* * *

Drago slows,stopping next to the curb in front of my building. Peering out the window, it looks quiet. Only Ms. Lincoln is outside, elbows deep in a flowerbed in front of the building next to ours.

My attention snaps back when I hear the car shut off.

“Thanks for the lift,” I tell him honestly.

I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around the fact that not only did I get drunk and sleep with someone, but also that someone is the same man I’ve been tasked with investigating on suspicion of drug smuggling into LA.

How on earth did I allow that to happen?

Whiskey. That’s how. Definitely where I’m placing the blame.

He nods but doesn’t say anything else before opening the driver’s side door, exiting the car. I watch in confusion as he rounds the vehicle to my side. I’m even more confused when the door opens, and he raises his hand toward me.

Does he want me to take it? Why?

This small yet gentlemanly gesture throws me off my game. Not only does this man know I’m a cop, but I’m the cop who’s looking for anything and everything to slap a pair of handcuffs on him and haul him down to the police station. This man is offering me his hand to take.

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