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“You got balls, coming into a man’s house and insulting him.”
“If your design choices didn’t insult my eyes, I wouldn’t have to,” I said, momentarily worried I was pushing it too far when Luigi just stared at me for a tense couple of seconds before a laugh escaped him.
“I like that spirit, doll face,” Luigi said, and I made sure I schooled my features into indifference even if his compliment left me feeling slimy. “Someone split that pretty face, though, huh? Now who would do such a terrible thing?”
“You.”
“Me? I haven’t put a hand on a woman’s face in my life. Hand to fucking God,” he said, putting one hand to his chest, and raising the other. “My mother would jam her rolling pin up my ass if she got word of me doing that.”
“Can I have your mother’s phone number?” I asked. “She and I need to have a little chat about how her son can be responsible for things without actually doing the act himself.”
“Breaking your face didn’t seem to break your spirit any,” Luigi said, shaking his head.
“It would take a hell of a lot more than that,” I said, giving him eye contact that felt uncomfortable to me, so I was sure he was antsy from it even if he didn’t let on. “Now why don’t you tell me what the hell you want from me, so we can both get on with our lives?”
“Who says you get to keep your life?”
“Given that I am here and alive, you clearly want something from me. Or else I’d be another body at Matteo Grassi’s house. So let’s get on with it already. I’m getting a headache just standing in this nightmare of a house,” I told him, watching as his jaw ticked a bit.
But he banked down that anger, holding out an arm, and inviting me back past the butterfly staircase and into the back of the house where the kitchen was located.
“Christ. Do you not realize there are about a million shades of color in the world that aren’t black and gold?” I hissed as we went into the kitchen where the cabinets were painted black with gold paint on the accents of the cabinet doors and the hardware.
“Enough with the smart mouth,” Luigi snapped, motioning toward the—you guessed it—black table.
“Take off these zip ties first,” I demanded, suddenly very aware of how close the back door was if things went south fast, and I needed a quick escape.
“Who do you think you are with all the fucking orders?” Luigi asked, shaking his head.
“Someone who has something you want. And someone who knows what kind of power comes with that. So take off my fucking ties, so we can talk like a couple of civilized people.”
Luigi exhaled hard, a sound that came out almost like a growl.
But he nodded to the guy who, I was pretty sure, had driven me, the older, bushy-browed guy, who reached for a pocket knife, flipped it open, and cut the ties.
My shoulders were screaming when they were finally able to move forward again, but I tried my best to keep that relief from my face.
“Better,” I said, chin high, as I took a seat at the table, but went ahead and made sure I was as close to the door as possible. Just in case. “So, you have some questions for me?” I asked, crossing my legs, trying to seem as at-ease as possible even if my insides were shaking and my mind was racing, wondering how quickly Matteo and the others got back to the house, if they discovered the guy in the basement, if they got any answers out of him about who he worked for. If they were coming for me at all.
“The fuck were you doing with the Grassi brother?” Luigi asked.
“Aside from blackmailing him, you mean?”
“Blackmailing?” Luigi asked, brows pinched. “For what?”
“For keeping my mouth shut about Matteo Grassi shooting a man in cold blood. One of yours, maybe?” I suggested.
“Told you he was dead,” the evil-eyed guy said, shaking his head. “He’s a flake, but he wouldn’t have skipped town in the middle of a job.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Luigi demanded, but there wasn’t a whole lot of malice behind the words. It was more like the other dude was saying too much, and Luigi was giving him his first warning about it.
“Oh, he’s dead alright,” I said, nodding. “Took a bullet to the head.”
“And why the fuck would Matteo Grassi let you blackmail him?”
“To keep me from going to the police,” I lied.
“And why would you even think of doing something like blackmail? A nice, upstanding citizen like you?”
“The same reason everyone does anything. Money. You think I wanted to work for Matteo Grassi for the rest of my life?” I scoffed, reaching up to brush a hand through my hair.
