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“Alright,” I say, patting my knee. “Sit with Daddy and tell me. Maybe I can help.”
But she doesn’t. She stands apart from me, her arms crossed on her chest. “The reference to Moby Dick has something to do with a local in Boston who travels.”
She definitely doesn’t want to get up close and personal with me right now. I understand, and I’m not going to push things either. We’ll get through whatever this is. We’re going to find a way that doesn’t need Romeo’s ultimatum to get us to where we need to be. Right now, what we need to do is figure out who’s paying Grady.
“There are a lot of covert literary references that I found relating to books and race cars. So I think it’s pretty obvious that the ‘Moby Big Dick’ reference has something to do with someone who races. Right?”
I nod. “The Rossi family isn’t the only one that races in Tuscany and Boston. There are a few others.”
“We aren’t going to find what we want online. These people are too careful. What did that woman say earlier?”
“She said they’re racing tonight.”
“It’s decided, then. We have to go tonight. What will that entail?”
“Me racing.” I feel a welcome surge of adrenaline. Drag racing in Tuscany is nothing like any other race. All drag racing isn’t illegal in Italy. Italians are famous for fast cars and speed, and people from all over gather in Milan to witness some of the most epic races in the history of racing.
Here in Tuscany, though, we’ve pushed the limits. Raised the stakes. We’re talking about people who drive without speed limits, who drive sometimes under the influence. I think nothing of driving a hundred miles an hour in a souped-up car. It isn’t just the race. The stakes are high. Tens of thousands of dollars in money, property…I’ve even been in races with higher demands. Flesh for flesh—a female tribute, a whore for a weekend, amnesty to do whatever the winner wants for a determined length of time.
I spread the word within our small, close-knit ring of rivals and friends that I’ll be joining tonight’s race. Maybe Eloisa baited me. Maybe her visit was just in time.
I try a few times to talk with Emma. To touch her. But she wants none of it. I let it go for now, because the most important thing we have to do is go to the race tonight and put all the factors together.
I leave her for a bit to take a walk in the warmth of the Tuscan sun while she’s hard at work at the computer. When I come back, she doesn’t even look up. We eat silently, and it isn’t until much later, before we’re about to leave, that she talks to me.
“What will you drive tonight?”
I tell her. “A Ferrari Pista Piloti.” My pride and joy, and the very reason I love Tuscany. I keep her here in Italy on purpose, because it makes it that much sweeter when I’m here. My special ride, for special races. She maxes out typically at two hundred and eleven miles an hour, or nearly three hundred forty kilometers an hour in Italian.
She nods. “Are you good?”
I snort. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
She mutters something under her breath.
I wish I could understand what pushed her away from me. Why is she shutting me down?
I wish I could fix it. But something tells me it’s far too complicated. That I couldn’t provide an easy answer if I tried.
“Tell me everything I need to know about watching this race. What I can find if I go.”
I reach for her, but she pulls away and gives me a sad, distant smile. “We have a job to do, Mario. Let’s do it. The less we confuse things, the better.”
I pull her to me, forcing her to look at me, and even though she lets me, there’s a cold distance in her eyes I can’t unsee.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
“Nothing, I just—”
I hold her face in my hand, forcing her eyes to mine. “I thought we settled things.”
“There’s nothing to settle, Mario,” she says coldly. “You’re in a mob. I’m under your protection temporarily while we discover who’s threatened me. I work for your family for now. I don’t want to talk about Romeo’s ultimatums or what I think about them. I want to find the people responsible for Grady’s attack and the threat on my life.” She blows out a breath. “No more, no less.”
No more, no less.
I hate the feeling of loss that hits me in the gut. The knowledge that she’s here to solve a crime and get her life back. That she has no interest in any future with me.
I thought we had something special. I thought we had a connection. Or was it that for once in my life I wanted more than a hot pussy and a one-night stand from a woman?
