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I lowered the gun and made myself known. Vincenzo seemed to have already been aware of my presence because he merely turned his head instead of being as frightened as I was.
"You shouldn't have come back," he noted quietly, rising and patting his hands on his pants. They looked like he had been kneeling in the dirt for a long time.
I snorted. "Then you should have taken a minute to text me that you were okay."
Out of defiance, I crossed my arms and eyed him reproachfully.
Next to him on the ground was a bag of seeds, also a shovel, and a spade. He certainly hadn't spent the night tending the garden for the bastard.
I chewed my lip, wondering whether I should ask what had happened. I was dying to know, but his reaction was reason enough to just leave him here and go back to Tramonti alone.
"And you could have sent Fiero instead of putting yourself in danger," he countered.
"You're such an idiot," I grumbled, turning on my heel to put some distance between us.
I knew that it had been a mistake to come here alone. That did not change the fact that I felt concerned for him. Actually, it was ridiculous. After all, we were talking about Vincenzo de Archard, who had more lives on his conscience than I had encountered people so far. That he failed against a simple murderer was extremely unlikely.
"I don't know what you expected!" he shouted after me. I was inclined to give him the middle finger and leave him standing there, but I wheeled around, feeling a little angry.
"Was it fun, at least?" I asked back.
It was silly to yell at each other and attract attention in someone else's yard after burying a body not ten yards away, but I couldn't help myself.
Vincenzo seemed to be aware of this as well because he stomped in my direction, grabbed me, and pulled me toward the house, not caring that he was causing me pain.
He maneuvered me inside, closed the door behind us, and let go of me. I stumbled away from him, only to find the kitchen smeared with blood up to the ceiling. Including the countertop, the floor, the sink, the door frame… the path to the garden.
I opened my mouth, turned to Enzo, and stared at him questioningly. What had happened? I couldn't remember people having that much blood.
"He eventually stopped taking my threats seriously, so I demonstrated to him how much more painful it is when I lay a hand on him myself. As opposed to when he mutilates himself, of course."
I exhaled. "You weren't going to take him to Tramonti?"
"I didn't know if you were going there with her."
A good train of thought, but I would never have taken Maria there. It was Enzo's private realm and outsiders had no business there.
"I took her to a women's shelter, gave her money, and promised her that she would no longer be in danger as long as she kept a low profile and never returned."
"Well, even if she were to return…" Vincenzo made a rude gesture with his hand, probably to tell me that the guy was more than dead.
"Isn't it dangerous to bury him here? What if anyone shows up?"
"The guy has no one left but this woman; we knew that. The house is rented, but the rent isn't due for another month. Someone will show up eventually. Let's say in six weeks, the landlord opens the house. He'll find only a few pieces of furniture left, nothing more. The grass at the back of the yard will have grown back and nothing will be visible. Even if he is found they won't find my marks on him." He sounded so sure that I believed every word of it.
"That means you want to get rid of everything?"
"There's not much. A few boxes of baby stuff, hardly any personal items. The only problem is the kitchen. I have to get that completely clean somehow."
I shook my head. Apparently, he hadn't thought of that last night.
A little disgusted, I went to the sink cabinet, yanked open the doors, and looked for cleaning supplies. Vince had murdered people – presumably, he had the basic cleaning and laundry supplies to rid himself of all evidence. Now, if his siblings knew about his nice hobbies, I could have just called one of the crime scene cleaners who worked for them but I guess we had to get our hands dirty ourselves.
I unearthed a smorgasbord of bottles, gloves, and coarse sponges.
"For not even being remotely happy that someone cares about you, you can clean that shit up yourself," I announced, still slightly miffed.
Vincenzo opened his mouth to protest, but I immediately interrupted him. He didn't need to try to talk his way out of it; his reaction had been clear.
