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“Eat,” he says putting it down on the desk.
“Where is Rocco?”
“Busy.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not yet, I’ll take you in the morning.”
“You will?” I say hopefully
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“You’re not going to drive me into the woods and kill me?”
“No, if I wanted to kill you I could do it right here without having to step outside,” he chuckles.
“You’ve thought about it then,” I say, almost horrified.
“Eat,” he says ignoring me.
Despite my protestations I’m starving, so much for the dinner I was going to cook Rocco. The chicken tastes like rubber and the vegetables are overcooked, but I swallow it all down followed by the soda. I lay down for a while on the pull-out sofa, tossing from side to side until I finally get up again. I feel angry and betrayed. Kicking the desk hard out of frustration, I almost break my foot, but the pain doesn’t seem to stop the one that is raging in my chest.
I curse myself realizing I broke Rocco’s drawer and a mountain of papers have cascaded out. I place the papers back in the drawers, trying to put them back into the correct order. A few of them are business invoices but there are a few photos in there of him and Lucia and one of our wedding photos.
I remember this photo being taken. It was after Keira had warned me off. I could almost transport myself back to that moment and how angry I was. However, in this picture, you can’t see any of that. My cheeks were flushed with apparent joy and I was wearing a mega-watt smile. Rocco as usual was sleekly handsome, looking every inch of masculine perfection. My heart constricts thinking of how we have come full circle in such a short amount of time. We started out rocky, building up some steam before ultimately sinking deep into the abyss.
I frown when I see children’s birthday cards. My first thought is that Rocco has a secret child that I don’t know about but when I look closely these are old. Some of them have yellowed and are thumbed at the edges. There are a stack of them, going up from the age of seven to twenty-one. Most of them are still unopened but there are letters too, all of them signed,Love, Mama. Why would he keep these? The letters have a used feeling to them showing me they have been read often. Did he ever contact her? The one time I had mentioned his Ma, Rocco changed the subject.
Clearly, Rocco has a pattern. If he can cut off his own mama, what chance do I have? I try to put everything back as I thought it looked like, but I know he’s going to realize that I have seen it all.
Franco frowns at me as I get in the passenger seat of the car at the hospital parking lot. I voluntarily discharged myself, I couldn’t bear to stay trapped in the hospital for a second longer.
“Are you sure you are okay to do this?” He says, giving me a concerned look.
“If you ask me one more time, Franco, you’ll be the one getting shot. Now, fucking drive.”
“Fine, Damon has called a couple of times. Sophia has been asking about you. Are there any instructions I should give him?”
“Not yet.” My jaw clenching.
An hour later, we are at one of my warehouses in Brooklyn. It used to be an old meat packing warehouse and has the luxury of being both abandoned and soundproof. The only drawback is that it is fucking freezing.
“Tell me what you know Ivan,” I say pulling on a knuckle duster. The denser the bone, the more painful it was for the recipient. Today, I was in no shape to have a fight with anyone but at least I could look the part. Franco hits him hard across the jaw, Ivan’s face sagging comically to the side.
“If I tell you I’m dead, if I don’t tell you I’m dead. What have I got to lose?” he says spitting out blood.
“There’s a difference between dying bloody or dying quickly,” I say leaning over him.
“I don’t know shit,” he says in a low grunt.
“That, I don’t doubt, but how are the Russians infiltrating our shipments?”
“Maybe we’re a lot cleverer than you Italian fuckwits.” He laughs, his spit forming little blood bubbles.
