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“No,” she said, bitterness dripping from that one syllable.
Despite how things had turned out between me and Rachel, I felt a surge of relief that I’d never told her about Alistair.
I had lost her when I went to prison, yes… but Rachel had also lost me. I tended to forget that.
Hearing the rancor in her voice, I would have hated for her to have lost her job because of me, too.
“Who hired you, then?” I asked.
She gave me a disapproving look. “That’s confidential.”
“Fausto Rosolini?”
“I didn’t get a name.” If it wasn’t the truth, she had a great poker face.
“Did you meet him?”
“I did.”
“Italian, 50-something, bit of a gut? Mustache and goatee like the devil?”
She smiled like Okay, I give up. “That’s him.”
“Was his son Aurelio there, too?”
“Again, I didn’t get a name.”
“Young guy, handsome, scowls all the time? A real asshole?”
“Two for two,” she said, playfully mocking me. “You know all about these people.”
“I should. I met them the day I got hired.”
“They must not have liked your job performance.”
“It’s more that they didn’t like the people who hired me.”
“The mafia,” she said, her voice laced with contempt. “That’s who you’re working for now, huh.”
Her disdain made me angry – as did her hypocrisy.
“You were working for them, too,” I growled, “when you showed up in Tuscany.”
She shrugged dismissively. “I didn’t know.”
“Or you didn’t want to know, so you didn’t ask.”
“Oh, I asked,” she hissed. “If what you’re saying is true, then they lied to me.”
“And that absolves you of everything, huh,” I said, addressing her with the same contempt she’d shown me.
She glared at me but didn’t reply.
“Fausto hired you to kill his nephew,” I said.
“Family drama’s always the worst, isn’t it,” she said flippantly, like she was bored of the conversation.
“I don’t know… I’ve always found relationship drama to be worse. Speaking of which – where’s your ring?”
