Page 86 of Fallen Rook

I opened my mouth, but Grams beat me to it. “He’s still single. There was someone, but he simply won’t do.”

“Why?” Iris frowned.

“Because he is not exactly tailored to the impossible, erratic proportions Tom squeezes everything in his life into so they’ll fit perfectly.”

The provocation earned my grandmother a stern headshake.

“Tom?” Iris turned to me with question in her eyes. “Is this true?”

“It’s complicated.” I reached for the root beer again. “But no, there isn’t anyone. I’m glad for you, though. You deserve some happiness.”

“Mom says ‘complicated’ is how people describe things when they don’t want to face the truth,” Silas piped up, oblivious to the tension at the table as he dug into his food. “Reality is cut and dried. The way we feel about it isn’t.”

And damn if the kid wasn’t right.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tom

On Saturday night, I patted myself on the back for not checking his socials or texting him since Zeke sent me on leave. Grams was wrong. I didn’t break my word and didn’t crawl back to New York to beg for forgiveness.

Two weeks, Enzo and I hadn’t been in contact.

Finally, I was back in full control.

I lay in the guest room’s bed, pleased that tomorrow would be full of activities. I was taking Grams to church, then catching up on admin, and going to see an old pal for dinner.

Secure in the knowledge I was cured of the Enzo plague, I decided to check in on him. Not because I cared anymore—or ever, really—but because I’d soon recruit my informant, so it was worth seeing if there was any important news about the Ferrantes’ lives.

I opened my fake Instagram, typing the first letter of his name. His profile popped up instantly. I did not use this account for anything other than stalking him.

I hit his name and saw that he had posted a new picture yesterday. This one had gone viral. There were nearly fifty thousand likes.

He was shirtless, his abs on full display, with a black skull bandanna covering everything from his nose and below—on a rooftop somewhere in Manhattan, by the view.

Concrete jungle, but I’m a lion, not a mouse. #neednoone #memyselfandi

I swallowed hard. Was this directed at me? If so, I felt like shit, because I’d obviously hurt him. If not, I also felt like shit, because that meant he’d moved on.

I clicked on the comments section, well aware it was a stupid idea. The thirsty reactions were getting out of control, though that was nothing new.

What was new was that he’d started answering them. In real fucking time.

He’d never acknowledged his followers before.

HotStuff28: I think we might be in the same area…

ItalianSausage:

HotStuff28: I’m DJing down the block. Sick party. Wanna come?

ItalianSausage: Mayyyyybe. Send location.

What business did he have answering comments on Instagram at two in the goddamn morning? Didn’t he have people to kill? The Camorra wasn’t going to run itself. I was a second away from picking up the phone, calling Luca, and telling him his enforcer was flirting like a fuckboy all over social media instead of dealing with the Bratva.

HotStuff28 answered his comment.

HotStuff28: DMing you now