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She stalked back into his postage stamp of a kitchen and turned on his tap. She’d already washed his dishes, but she’d wash them again.
He sighed and followed her. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Yeah, champ. It was.” She took a Brillo pad to the stain on the old skillet that she’d failed to get off every other time she tried. The scrubbing helped—not the pan, but her heart. Just enough to paint her lips with a smile as false as their bright red color. “But hey, what’s it to me, right? You’re not paying me for my life story.”
He leaned into the wall and studied her. “What else did she say?”
Predictable. Sally scrubbed a little harder. “She says Enzo’s happier than she’s ever seen him, and Sabina too. She’s convinced they’ll be happy together—moreover, that they’ll only be happy together—so she’s taken up their side. Asked me to warn you away from any other stupid attempts—again, her words—to win Sabina back. Says it’ll only make Manny mad, and he’s about reached the end of his rope when it comes to you.”
Roman snorted his opinion of that.
Sally ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. If he didn’t like that, he definitely wasn’t going to like the next part. “She also said that the day of the infamous park scene, Manny stopped by the law office to talk to Enzo about Eddie’s murder.”
Frozen in his tracks, he gave her his undivided attention. “Yeah? Boy am I going to have fun looking at Capecce in court and shooting his faith in Manny to pieces.”
“That’s not gonna happen, champ. Apparently he was only there to get an introduction to another firm. It’s Clarence Darrow you’d be seeing in court.” Seeing his shoulders sag, hearing his curse—English this time—Sally had to shake her head. “You’ve got an awful lot of emotion pinned on this. What if Ava’s right? What if Manny didn’t do it, and talking to this Baker character proves it? What’ll you do then?”
His shrug was unconcerned. “Take down the gangster who is, I guess. And then convince Sabina I made sure her father didn’t take the rap for it for her sake. Might buy me a few points, huh?”
Sally lifted her brows and rinsed the pan, holding it up to the single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling to see if she’d made any progress on the stain. It hadn’t budged. “You really want my opinion? I think you need to face that she’s made her choice. It’s time to move on.”
“Why the devil would I do that? I love her. I can’t just give up.”
Oh, Roman. He was all stubborn Irish and passionate Italian, and in this particular case, the combination equaled heartache for him. She knew he didn’t want her take on it. But someone had to give it to him straight, and who else was going to do it? “If you loved her, you’d want her to be happy. She is. So step aside. That’s what love does.”
He snorted and strode down the hall to his bedroom. “Like you know anything about it.”
If there had been anything breakable at hand, she would have smashed it into a wall just for the pleasure of hearing the crack and the catharsis of picking up every little sliver afterward. Given the Spartan nature of his apartment, she had to settle for spewing a few volcanic phrases.
The front door thumped with the heavy rap of a fist, but the cursing from the bedroom didn’t let up. Sally rolled her eyes and sauntered over to the door with a sarcastic, “Don’t worry, Roman darling, I’ll get it. My pleasure. Really. You just put your feet up.”
She wrenched the door open, not exactly surprised to see Roman’s fair-complexioned partner standing on the other side. She was equally unsurprised to see the derision in his eyes upon spotting her. Maybe it was that ramrod spine of his, or maybe it was the way he dismissed in a glance anyone who didn’t measure up to whatever ideals he had in that blond head, but he reminded her way too much of Daddy Dearest.
She leaned into the doorframe and gave him her most provocative smile. And boy did it provoke him. He looked like he’d take great pleasure in tossing her out with all the other trash. “Well, well, well,” she said in the throaty tone she had perfected after a few months on the street. “If it isn’t the illustrious Clifford Brewster. We finally meet face to face.”
“Hm.” His glance barely touched her before dismissing her. “Where’s Roman?”
“Sulking. Come on in.” She stepped aside so he could enter, thoroughly enjoying playing hostess simply because it would annoy him. “I was just fixing some spaghetti for dinner. You’re welcome to stay.”
Cliff crossed through the door, shut it behind him, and glared at her. “Cooking for him, now? Don’t think you’re going to get away with this. I see right through you.”
“Oh yeah?” She put an extra swing in her hips as she sashayed into the kitchen. “Well, you look right through me, but I have my doubts that you see much.”
“Wanna bet?” He swept a hand out to encompass the clean apartment. “You’re ingratiating yourself. Trying to get him to see you as something more than a whore, so that when he practically goes bankrupt to pay off your debts, he’ll keep you around. Well, it isn’t gonna happen that way.”
Okay, maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit. Still. She stirred the sauce again, tasting it to see if it needed anything more. The flavor was perfect—it just needed to thicken. “Probably not. But that’s okay. I enjoy cooking and making a place livable. And believe it or not, I like Roman.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. “Sure, sweetheart. Your kind’s notorious for falling for your johns.”
“Just like johns are notorious for going bankrupt to save a girl.” After wiping up a drop of sauce that had splattered on the stove, she turned to meet his gaze, hip cocked and hand resting on it. “This ain’t your usual situation, sweetheart. I’m far from naive, so I know I’m nothing but convenient for him. He’s in love with Sabina. But you know what? I’m fine with coming in second, if I can rank at all.”
He stepped closer, probably just so he could look down his nose at her. “Do us all a favor. When he gets you out, go find yourself some rich dope that can set you up somewhere far away from him. He’s got enough problems without adding you to the list.”
A huge crash came from the bedroom, followed by some enthusiastic cursing. Sally couldn’t contain a chuckle. “You’re right about those problems, anyway. The Italian seems to come out when he’s at his angriest.”
“Sicilian.”
“Hm?”
He motioned toward the hall. “It’s not Italian, it’s Sicilian. They’re pretty touchy about that.”
Thoughts raced through her mind in an attempt to piece together the puzzle that was Roman O’Reilly. “So is that why he’s got this vendetta against the Mafia? Did people judge him guilty because of his Sicilian blood?”
“It’s far deeper than that.” Cliff shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting down the hall. When they rested on her again, they were assessing.
She didn’t expect him to tell her what that deeper thing was. At some point in the eighteen months since she’d woken up on a street corner in the Levee, bruised and bloodied and so hungry she couldn’t see the trap in Al “Brown’s” eyes when he offered her “a place to stay,” she’d gotten used to people judging her. She was used to people who thought that anyone who sold her body must not have a soul or a heart or a mind. She’d gotten used to being garbage, just like Dad had always said she was. And Cliff Brewster was cut from the same cloth.
Then he rolled back his shoulders and sighed. “The Mafia killed his father.”
