He stops in front of me.
“So, I’ll ask you one more time, and I’ll ask you nice, and then we’ll be past the nice part. What are you to him.”
“I don’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“He—” My voice cracks. I start again. “He took a liking to me. That’s all. I work for him. That’s what I am to him. He took a liking.”
He smiles.
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard.” His eyes travel down, drinking in the towel, the wet ends of my hair, the bare feet on the tile. “See, now we’re getting somewhere. Now I can go back to my boss with something useful.”
His hand comes up.
It lands on my bare shoulder, just where the towel ends.
“Don’t touch me.” I try to shake off his grip.
“Yeah, about that.”
He reaches slowly into the inside of his jacket with his free hand. He isn’t rushing. He wants me to watch. What comes out is a folding knife.
He holds it down at his side.
“This part’s been complicated,” he says. “I’ll be honest with you. My boss has a boss. And his boss is a lot less patient than my boss, and my boss is not what I’d call a patient man.”
He tilts the knife slightly, catching the bathroom light on the flat of it.
“So, we decided on an experiment. Real simple. Someone roughs up the pretty new assistant a little. Leaves a few marks. Maybe a little more than a few. And then we all sit back, and we watch what happens. Does the famiglia make a noise? Does D’Amico lose his shit? Does somebody show up at a sit-down asking questions?” He shrugs. “Or does it turn out to be nothing. Unfortunate incident. Shallow grave in the river park. Firm sends flowers. Life goes on.”
The thumb of his other hand has moved. It’s tracing the top of the towel slowly, almost idly, not seeming to care that I’ve gone rigid.
“That’s what we’re figuring out tonight, sweetheart. Which one it is.”
His fingers hook into the fabric. Fear pulses through me, fast and frantic.
“Don’t take this personal. It’s just research.”
“Don’t—”
“Or what?” The knife comes up a fraction, not at me, just enough to make sure I’ve seen it. He’s still smiling, small and private. “You’ll scream? This building? Three of your neighbors run benzos out the front door. Nobody in this hallway’s calling anybody.”
“Please—”
“Easy way,” he says, “or the other one. Doesn’t change my night either way. Changes yours. So?—”
Then, suddenly, there’s a dull, cracking sound. Wet and heavy. It shuts him up.
His whole body lurches forward. His weight shifts suddenly, and he stumbles into me. I flinch back against the sink, and something warm hits the side of my neck and my jaw.
He stays upright for a moment. One hand still on the towel. The other raised, halfway to his head, as if he’s trying to figure out what just hit him.
Clumsily, he turns.
My breath catches in my throat.
Raffaele is standing in my bathroom doorway, a pistol low at his side. His knuckles are covered in blood.
