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What was I going to tell her?
That I was pretty sure some shady character was following him?
Yeah, I didn’t think that was going to work.
And unfortunately for me, Matteo didn’t come to work the next day. Or the day after that.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait. I mean, would I be able to live with myself if he found himself gunned down because I didn’t manage to get in touch with him in time?
True, yes, he was a killer himself.
But I couldn’t stand by and let a man be murdered, either.
I hemmed and hawed my plan for a while after work on Wednesday before I finally decided I had no choice.
I didn’t have his number.
But I did know where he lived.
Was I thrilled at the idea of willingly walking up to the house I’d been unwillingly held not long before?
No.
But what other option did I have?
If I wanted to live with myself, that is.
Besides, on a purely selfish and kind of icky level, if Matteo Grassi died, so did our deal, and the plan I had just started creating for my future using the money from him.
That plan included getting my own party planning type business going. One where I worked for myself, made my own hours, and hired my own staff.
Granted, I had very few complaints about my present work situation, but I think most people—when given the option to work for someone else, or themselves—would choose working for themselves.
So I was parking my car down the street a bit because I needed a few more minutes to talk myself into walking back up to that house.
Matteo lived in a nice, yet unassuming, neighborhood. It was your average middle-class sort of area where there were likely a ton of kids, frazzled moms carting said kids off to too many after-school activities, and dads who were very concerned about the height and level of greenness to their front lawns.
It was not the kind of place you expected a member of the mafia to live.
I guess if you thought of the mafia, you assumed they lived in big mansions with tons of security around.
But this was a place I could see myself living someday if I managed to save enough money to get my own place.
Each house was a little different from the next. Ranches sat next to split levels that sat next to craftsman style homes.
Matteo’s house, though, was one of only two colonials on the street. Which made it one of the bigger houses in the neighborhood, but not so much so that it looked out of place in the area.
It was a two-story brick building that had a lime wash, black shutters, and what looked like a conservatory toward the back of the house. The driveway had been recently redone, but the walkway needed some love. The reddish stones were half-sunken into the ground that surrounded them. Actually, the curb appeal in general needed some work. Aside from this giant holly bush near one side of the house, there wasn’t much to write home about.
But from the quick glance I’d gotten around his place while escaping from it suggested that Matteo had likely just bought the home, and was in the process of fixing it up. He probably didn’t get to the outside before the weather turned cold.
It wasn’t until I was right in front of his house, though, that I realized I’d miscalculated my timing.
Because Matteo’s driveway was filled with cars. In fact, there were several lining the street as well.
I stood there for a long moment, irrationally worried that someone was going to come out and grab me for interrupting some mob meeting or something.
But then there was the sound of a car door slamming at my side, making me turn to find a woman making her way toward Matteo’s house with what looked like enough food to feed an army in her arms, carefully stacked and topped with foil.
She was average-sized and just passed middle-aged with graying hair around her pretty oval face that was dominated by bright, light brown eyes.
“Hey, honey, did one of the boys forget to come out and get you?” she asked, clicking her tongue. “You tell me which one it is, and I will box his ears for you. Right in front of everyone. These men these days with… hey, I know you!” she declared, brightening, all thoughts of beating the Grassi men forgotten.
“You do?” I asked, brows furrowing.
“Well, not know-you, know you, honey. But you helped plan my niece’s eighteenth birthday party. Candy. I don’t know what her mother was thinking, naming her Candy. I guess it was the morphine after she gave birth. Anyway, yes, you did Candy’s party. It was absolutely beautiful.”
“I did,” I agreed, giving her a genuine smile because it never got old to hear praise for my work. Candy had been a pretty unwilling part of the process at first, clearly wanting to spend her birthday out with her friends, not with her very large family. But her mother had insisted. And after a few hours, I got her to be excited about the event. It had been, if I do say so myself, absolutely beautiful. Pinks and creams and lots of flowers.
