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I eyed him closely—he was deflecting. What else had he done for other people? But I knew the conversation was over. I wasn’t going to get any more out of him.
“So, if acts of kindness are off the table, what can I ask you about?”
“You’ve told me about your childhood and your career aspirations. What about family? Any siblings?” he asked, altogether avoiding my question, but it provided a segue into a question of my own.
I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t have any siblings.
“I have three older brothers,” I said. “But we’re not close,” I tried to cover quickly. “I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
He seemed to be mulling over this.
“What about you?” I asked, though I already knew he had three brothers. Just like me—I’d never really made that connection before. While I was the youngest, he was the eldest. “Are you close to any of them, I mean?”
He nodded slowly. “The second in line—Gabe. We’re close,” he said and then laughed. “Hell, for Costas, we’re pretty much best friends.”
“What do you mean by ‘for Costas’?”
His expression turned serious, and I could tell by the calculating look in his eyes he was choosing his words carefully.
“I mean, my family isn’t exactlyThe Brady Bunch. Loyalty is important—vital, in fact.” A fierce light lit up his eyes. “But beyond that, close relationships have never really been my family’s concern.”
Antonio arrived with our pizza, served up on a tall, silver platter and steaming hot. He placed it down on the table between us, and the spicy-sweet scents wafted in the air. I tried not to be mortified when my stomach rumbled a little loudly.
“Buon appetite,” Antonio said. He set a knife and two plates down next to the tall tray and disappeared back behind the counter.
“Grazie,” Nico and I said at the same time to the man’s retreating back.
Nico picked up the knife and sliced up the pizza. I watched the way his hand moved, gripping the shiny black handle and slicing through the pizza with just enough pressure to cut through each piece with one smooth stroke. Was that because he ate pizza so often, he could cut it up in his sleep? Or was it because he was so skilled with knives, he knew exactly how to wield one in any circumstance?
“Why do you do it?” The question tumbled from my lips as he transferred a slice onto each plate.
He looked up at me, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively.
“All the stuff they talk about in the news, in tabloids? You know...”
He laughed, but it was a dry laugh. There was no humor in it. “I’m the son of Lorenzo Costa. It’s in my blood.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it? I see the other side of you, whether you want me to see it or not. So, why choose to dothatstuff?”
Something haunted ghosted across his expression. It made my heart ache for him.
“It’s complicated,” he said eventually. “And this is not a conversation I have with anyone, Raven. Just leave it alone.”
The dangerous glint glittered in his eyes, but it didn’t scare me the same way as it did not so long ago. It still sent a ripple of cold down my spine, but I’d seen too much of him to believe there was nothing inside him but a coldhearted killer.
“All right, then tell me what it’s like?” I said, accepting another dead end.
His eyes went a little wide, like he hadn’t been expecting me to ask a question like that. And I probably shouldn’t have. It was morbid. But if he wouldn’t tell me why he did it, then maybe what it was like was the next best thing.
Maybe a tiny part of me was genuinely curious. I could almost understand the primal thrill of holding another’s life in one’s hands. To feel powerful. And for me, I could understand the appeal of feeling in control, even if it was control over another’s life, not my own.
But to think about it and to do it were two very different things.
He was silent for so long I figured he wasn’t going to answer, but then he looked at me.
“It’s messy,” he said with a flicker of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
I tried to hide my disappointment.
