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Jesus.
“Good enough for you? Enough information?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. I nod and give her a dry smile. “Go get ready. We have work to do. I can point out a few mobs, like Eloisa’s, for instance, if you really need to get some revenge.”
She actually smiles at that, hearing the humor in my voice and responding reluctantly with a shake of her head. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
I have a quick conference call with my brothers and give them noncommittal answers. “Santo, I need you to look up Moby Dick.”
“The book?” he asks, confused.
“The transfers to Grady’s account. Came from an Ishmael, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Eloisa paid me a visit today,” I say dryly. Santo curses under his breath. He has no patience for women like her. “When I wouldn’t give her what she wanted, she said she’d love to see me get my ass kicked by Moby Big Dick. Then said, ‘his Ferrari’s bigger.’”
“Not sure she was talking about his car, brother.”
“Yeah, brainiac, no shit. But she was obviously talking about racing. She knows I race, and I don’t know who the fuck she referenced. Can you look into that?”
“Will do my best.”
“Thanks.”
Romeo speaks up. “Any answers from Emma?”
“Not yet,” I tell him. There’s no way she’s gonna give in to his demands, and that puts me in an awkward position. My allegiance above all is to my family. All of us take those vows. Doesn’t mean a woman hasn’t swayed any of us once or twice. Hell, even straight-as-an-arrow Orlando covered for his wife when the shit hit the fan. Didn’t want to see her pay the consequences for her actions. And for the second time, I think… it worked out for them.
I need to stall. Think of our options. Find another one. I won’t make her choose between two types of death. I can’t do that to her.
I put my brothers off and tell them we’re on it, that we’re working an angle from where we are and will update with any leads.
“Mario, I—”
“Sorry, Rome, the connection’s shit,” I lie. “Hello? Hello? I’ll call you later when I’m on the road.”
I hang up.
My phone dings with a text seconds later.
Romeo: Don’t play me, Mario. I want an update this afternoon.
Shit. You can’t pull anything over on him.
I sit on the sofa and cross one ankle over my knee. Thinking. Mulling. When I was little, my father gave me shit about “sitting and doing nothing,” but it was rarely the case. Someone’s got to be the brains behind shit, and I can’t always think my best when I’m moving. I close my eyes and piece it all together.
She’s driven by the need to see justice. She’d taken her job under the assumption it was the best way for her to do exactly that. Grady fucked her over. The very people she trusted to help fulfill her life’s purpose betrayed her. She believes the only true path to justice lies in bringing down crime rings, but what if… what if I could show her that we’re not all the same? That yes, we all play by different rules, but that some of us have much more twisted ulterior motives than others?
What if she could seek her own type of vengeance by seeking justice within the confines of working for us?
Because what she doesn’t know right now is that she’s in more trouble than she’s ever been in before. Whoever Grady’s working for has it out for her. They aren’t going to stop until she stops. And for her, that means her death.
But there has to be another way.
My papa always said I was too “glass half full,” that I needed a heavy dose of pragmatism and real-world consequences. He tried to give me those real-world consequences firsthand, but it didn’t change who I was. My mama would shake her head and say, “Mario, vedere tutto rosa.” In other words, I saw the world tinted pink, or through “rose-colored glasses.”
Life is too full of tragedy and heartache to dwell on it for long. I’ve always chosen to live life to the fullest, enjoy the moment. To love the food, and weather, and a beautiful woman on my arm. I love to laugh and love to sing, love to drive and love to race, love to drink good wine and eat good food and fall into bed beside a beautiful woman after chasing our own pleasure.
And I won’t stop now.
“Emma,” I call out to her.
“Yes?”
“Come here, doll.”
She shuts the door behind her and walks out to me. My heart warms when she obeys me, when she doesn’t fight me this time. But there’s a coldness in her eyes when she looks at me.
“Any luck?”
“I’m not sure…” her voice trails off. She bites her nail, an uncharacteristic move for someone as confident as her, but I can tell she’s thinking things over. “I found a few things that are starting to feel like if I can piece them together, it will all fit. But I don’t know…”
