“That’s not what you want.”
“Excuse me?”
“You really see yourself settling down with a dentist or some shit?” he asked incredulously. “A boring life of mediocrity and bullshit?”
“I don’t care how boring or mediocre it is—as long as he comes home at the end of the day.”
Now his stare changed entirely, softening in a way it never had before. He seemed to read all my secrets as if I’d written them on my face in permanent ink. His eyes flicked back and forth between mine as he continued to absorb my energy, as he continued to feel everything I tried to suppress deep inside me. Then he gave a slow nod as if he finally understood. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
My eyes flicked away.
But he continued to stare at me. Stare hard. Stare like he would never stop. “But that wouldn’t happen with me.”
“Your arrogance is the thing that’s going to get you killed, Wolfe.”
He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, he lowered it. “Look at me.”
I kept my eyes on the suture kit.
His hand reached for my neck, and he gently turned my face and forced me to meet his stare. “Francesca.” His warm fingers remained pressed against my cold skin, authoritative but also soft, reminding me of our night together and the way he could take me hard one moment and then gently the next. “If you were my woman, nothing would stop me from coming home to you.”
9
WOLFE
I spotted Salvatore smoking a cigar outside the cellar. “I want to see Don Mancini.”
He just took a puff and let it escape his mouth as he looked at me. “Why?”
“I know who robbed him.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What robbery?—”
“I know their shipment from the US was confiscated. Let’s skip the bullshit.” I’d overheard Francesca’s conversation with her brother because I’d eavesdropped on purpose. I’d assumed some bad shit had happened for a phone call to take place that late. “Where is he?”
He continued to hold the cigar between his fingertips, and it seemed like he was going to take another puff butdecided against it. Instead, he flicked it onto the ground and stepped on it. “How’d you know about it?”
“People talk.”
“Which people? Because it was clear you weren’t supposed to know about it.”
I stared him down and held my silence. “You want your shit back or not?”
He sized me up before he nodded toward the car. “They’re in Enna. I’ll take you.”
We walked to the parking lot and hopped in the car. Salvatore took off and made it to the main road then headed inland. Enna was the next city over, a sprawling village on the hilltop, the church one of the highest buildings in the city. Because of the elevation, it had a breathtaking view of Mount Etna, which looked like a neighbor at that angle.
The wall of the village came into view with the beige buildings, the cathedrals visible. We drove inward and found somewhere to park the car before he walked down the winding streets until we reached the outside of a restaurant that appeared to be closed.
“I can’t promise you won’t get shot when we walk in there,” Salvatore said.
“No one can promise that.”
He nodded, and we headed inside.
The restaurant was empty of customers, and the men seemed to be gathered in the back of the dining room, paintings of the region all over the walls, with the flag of Sicily mounted. Cans of a hundred-year-old tomato sauce were on the shelves on the wall like antiques.
Don Mancini’s voice was audible. “You’re the only one who has access to Gallo—at least, in a way we don’t. I need to get to the bottom of this. I’m tired of shaking a man’s hand while he stabs me in the back?—”
