“The store,” I clarify. “Which one did you go to?”
“Lupardo’s! I grabbed milk for my mother before work.”
Pow.
“Ow! Fuck.”
“Why did you shoot him again?”
“His mother lives in Palermo, two and a half hours from here. In Preda territory,” Benny snarls.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket to type a text. The gun is still on Dante with no kneecaps and a pending funeral. Of all the lies that could get a man killed, buying milk for his mama was the best one?
A man in an all-black suit enters the office. Benny says something to him in Sicilian before Dante gets dragged out by his foot.
“Your loyalty does not go unnoticed,” Benny tells the last man standing in Italian. “Luiggi will take you back.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bennici.” The man bows twice, like he saw the Prince of Zamunda, and shuts the office door behind him.
“That wasn’t tense at all,” I huff. No wonder the furnishings are dark. “Where is Dante going?”
“To the basement.”
Ew.
“Can I not be down there to hear the screams? I don’t need to add nightmares to my saga.”
He pockets his phone. “How did you know he was lying?”
“People tell on themselves. Responding to a question with another question. Feigning outrage. Deflecting to others. You’d be surprised how many liars swear on a grandparent. I’m offended for his grandmother.”
Benny motions for my trash. “And asking him to tell what happened in reverse?”
“Oh, that. It’s a cognitive strategy I learned,” I say. “People who lie usually practice the story they tell from beginning to end, not the other way around. It’s harder for them to stick to their story when they have to deviate. I’ve used that trick occasionally at my old job. Easier to catch them off guard.”
The beginning of a smile tips Benny’s mouth. “I found a way for you to pay me what you owe, Trouble.”
Why do I already know it’s a bad idea?
This must be a trauma response. It explains why I’m twirling pasta around my fork like I’m on a date and not being held against my will.
“Are you done laughing?” Benny’s forearms flex on the table. Black ink snakes across his arms toward the white dress shirt rolled to his elbows. He swapped out all black for a navy suit before taking us to his restaurant. The dress code is different when not shooting off people’s knees.
I cackle harder.
Owing millions isn’t what’s threatening a fart to slip. It’showBenny wants me to earn back my freedom that has me laughing in his face.
“I’m going to help you take down Sicily’s biggest mafia?” Tears scald my eyes through a wheeze that stretches into a snort. “You want me to go toe-to-toe with the Godfather? Did I get that right?”
My fight-or-flight response is somewhere playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. There is no logical reason I, Bianca Marie Harris—first of her name and raised by a Black woman who taught me better common sense—am not scaling the balcony. I’ve already climbed down one this trip. Pantyless and free is where I want to be.
Benny’s lips press into a thin line. He hasn’t said a word since asking me—with a straight face—to embark on a covert mission that will end with me inside a barrel of acid.
I’m not Jennifer Garner and this sure ain’tAlias!
The metal rings on his tattooed fingers catch in the sun. The balcony off his office in his restaurant shields us, but he didn’t want to risk the sun in my face.
He adjusts his sunglasses and strokes his beard. His jaw ticks, a precursor to bullshit on the way.
