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No more sex stuff. He can keep his filthy mouth to himself. I’ll deal with the murder ghosts all by my lonesome in the guest bedroom.
I spend the morning getting to know the house. It’s really a charming place with lots of natural light and so much potential. Honestly, it’s almost the ideal place for me—close to my family, in a nice neighborhood, but still old and quirky, which is how I like my housing. I’m not sure how he managed to snag it, but I get a strange feeling as I think back to our conversations. The guy bought this house before we were even married, which means he’d been thinking about something like this—for how long, exactly? I wonder if I can look it up in the property records.
Curiosity gets the better of me. It’s annoying trying to navigate the county website via my phone, so I head out for a walk around the neighborhood. Since I happened to grow up in this place, it’s not hard to find the public library, and since I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl to escape the house when it felt too full of overbearing mafia asshole types, I easily grab a computer and get myself logged in. Then it’s another ten minutes before I’m staring at an old Zillow listing, my mouth pulled into a tight frown.
“That can’t be right,” I say quietly to myself and decide to check a few more places. But everywhere I look lists the same bought and sold date.
From five years ago.
Which makes no sense. Why the hell would Gian buy a house near my familyfive years ago? Way before we were ever taking. I barely thought about him back then, and when I did, it was never exactly positive. I wasn’t engaged to his brother, wasn’t even involved with the Rossi Famiglia at all.
Why would he do that?
Unless the dates are wrong. Maybe he bought it in a private sale and it’s not listed on these websites? But they pull data from county records and all real estate transactions are recorded.
It’s a puzzle and one that doesn’t feel great.
I head out of the old familiar library and walk back to the house, taking my sweet time. It’s a nice summer day, not too hot, a rare afternoon where the humidity doesn’t make me want to melt into a puddle. I’m unnerved about the house stuff, but there’s got to be a reasonable explanation for it. Aside from Gian being a total crazy person.
As I get closer to what’s now apparently my home, I slow to a stop and stare at a fleet of trucks parked out front. Some are moving vans, but most are delivery trucks, and an army of very large men are carrying what looks like furniture into my house.
“Excuse me?” I approach a couple of men leaning up against a van. They’re both sweating and very muscular, basically built like double ovens, thick at both ends. “Hi, I live here. And, uh, what’s going on?”
The closer one shrugs. He’s got no sleeves, ripped cargo shorts, and heavy gloves. “Someone ordered a bunch of furniture and paid for the white-glove treatment, I guess.”
“What did you two bring in?”
“Couple of couches. Got them placed where I think they look nice, but you probably want to move it around.” He squints at me, frowning. “You want us to come in and adjust stuff?”
“No,” I say, blinking rapidly as some flat packs are hefted up the stairs followed by lamps, a dresser, and an end table. “That’s fine. Uh, thanks.”
“Happy to help. Guess the guy’s your husband? He tipped real good so I think everyone here’s in a very helpful mood.” He laughs and scratches his head.
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m gonna go check out what he bought.”
“You don’t know? Good luck, I guess.”
I laugh and walk past him, feeling numb. What the crap is going on? I step in through the front door, nearly getting tackled by more movers, both of whom mutter an apology and hurry out to grab more stuff from their truck. The place is chaos: burly men are everywhere, some unpacking and building, some placing and arranging. On the left is a sitting room with rolled-up rugs, a couple couches, a beautiful table, and a china cabinet. There’s a kitchen set in the dining room, couches and a coffee table for the living room, and a few guys are mounting a TV above the fireplace. Another pair is setting up speakers, drilling out holes in the ceiling and the walls, running wire everywhere.
“Sorry, excuse me,” a man says as he carries a statue of what looks like a black panther sitting on his butt and sniffing the air.
“Hold on, what the heck is that thing?”
He frowns and shrugs. “Don’t know. Receipt says it cost like six grand though. Where do you want it?”
“Uh—” I’m tempted to saythe trashbut just shake my head, completely bewildered. “Wherever you find space.”
“Sure thing.”
I drift upstairs. The scene is the same. More guys are building stuff: dressers, nightstands, beds in all the bedrooms.
It’s a total nightmare. An hour ago, this place was totally empty, but now it’s full to bursting. At least I spot a man wearing a nice suit carefully unpacking a box that looks like it’s filled with my own stuff.
“Hi, are you one of Gian’s guys?”
He glances over with a smirk. “Not exactly. My name’s Dante.”
I know that name. It registers somewhere in the back of my head before it clicks into place. “You’re Renzo’s best friend.”
