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The sex was unbelievable. We had a spark—some bone-deep connection—and each time we finished, I was wrung out and wrecked. I swore it couldn’t get better. Yet it always did.
It felt like fate. The military, my training. The missed shot on Ravazzani. Blackmailed by D’Agostino into this job. My whole life has been a series of steps leading up to the farmhouse right here. With him.
I knew it wouldn’t end well. It couldn’t. But I would enjoy whatever time we had together.
At the moment I was sitting at the kitchen island as Giulio made dinner. He was doing most of the talking, but I didn’t mind. I tended to be quieter, while Giulio was loud and bright, like the nightclubs he frequented.
I could see why he was always surrounded by friends and family. He was easy to get along with, personable and funny. Self-deprecating and humble. He regaled me with stories about being in his father’s ’ndrina, growing up in Siderno. He spoke little of Fausto and Frankie, though. Mostly he talked about his Zia, who I gathered had raised him in the absence of a mother.
We shared that in common. My nonna sounded a lot like his great-aunt. A very old school Italian woman who was devoted to the church and tolerated no nonsense.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” I asked after he finished telling me another story about his Zia.
“About three weeks ago.”
“If someone is trying to find you and kill you, making phone calls isn’t very smart.”
He drained the wine in his glass, then rolled his eyes. “I have burner phones, assassino. I’m not a complete novice.”
“Phones can be tapped on the other end, principe.”
“Which wouldn’t help them find me unless I gave away my location. Which I didn’t. Dio santo, man.”
“Who else did you call? Frankie?” I knew from trailing him that he and his stepmother spoke regularly.
“No. I called a friend from Belgium.” Reaching for the wine bottle, he refilled his glass.
“Why not? I know how close the two of you are.”
“I don’t want to tell her what’s going on. She can’t keep secrets from my father. Even if she tries, he gets it out of her somehow.” He set the bottle down and returned to the chicken. “And it’s not fair to ask it of her. Fausto and the children are her priorities, not me.”
“What about your father? When was the last time you spoke?”
“Málaga.”
That was a long time ago. Were they not close? “You don’t talk to him much, not as often as his wife.”
“It’s probably not hard for you to imagine, but my father can be a bit controlling.”
“A Ravazzani trait, I’m learning,” I said.
He shrugged, as if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. “I don’t want him worrying about me. I’m a grown man.”
I let that go. I didn’t know what it was like to have a father. “Your mother died when you were young?”
“Yes, the last time Fausto went to war. I was just a baby. I don’t remember her at all.”
“How did everyone find out you were gay?”
He flicked a glance at me. “You are full of questions tonight.”
I couldn’t help it. I’d followed him for so long, but that didn’t show me inside his mind, or help me understand his history. Those things he had to tell me himself, and I was suddenly greedy to know everything. And there had been a certain distance between us these last few days, as if he were holding parts of himself back from me. I didn’t like this. “Does it bother you to talk about it?”
“No, of course not.” He put the knife down. The muscles in his arms stretched as he braced his palms on the island. He kept his eyes on the far wall, not on me. “My father caught me on camera. I was blowing Paolo outside one of the exits at a club.”
“Porca dio! On camera? He must have been furious.”
“Furious isn’t the word. He was . . . hurt. Disappointed. Livid. Worried. And I honestly thought—”
