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“What do you think it is? Do you have any thoughts?” It would be good if he gave me some idea of what to look for.
“He has a lot of money, your father. Not all of it is clean. I think he is working with someone, perhaps washing it, perhaps he stole it, but who, how, or where, I don’t know.”
I think about what he says. It is, of course, possible. My father, through his quest of wanting more, could have made some deals with people he shouldn’t have. Considering I am now in the mob’s compound in New York City is evident of that fact at least. I sigh and rub my eyes, feeling weary and emotional, yet trying to display an air of confidence I know I need around this man. I’m also on high alert, since I don’t know what he, or anyone else in this building, is capable of.
“Come and eat. You have a long few hours ahead of you still,” he says before turning on his heel and walking back out the door. I watch him leave, surprised by the offer. But I guess prisoners get meal time in jail and I suppose this is no different.
I get up to follow him, my stomach rumbling because I haven’t eaten all day. Walking slowly out of the room, I take in my surroundings and commit everything to memory. As I step down the small hallway into the open-plan kitchen and living room I walked past earlier, I stand, mesmerized for a moment, as the late afternoon sun shines brightly now. The high ceilings, with the large glass windows, let in some beautiful light, making the whole room shine. Looking around, I spot two bowls of pasta and some water at the dining table, with Nico already sitting down and waiting for me.
Wordlessly, he pulls out a chair for me, waving me in. I take a seat, and he passes me some bread, the whole thing entirely domesticated, like he’s a perfect host. This is odd. Or at least it should be. Me sitting at a dining table, having a meal with a mob soldier. My eyes continue to flick around the room, like I am waiting for someone to jump out and spook me, but keeping a straight back and relaxed expression to hide my wariness. But that seems to be wasted on him.
“Will you relax and eat your pasta? You are not in danger. Besides, even if I wanted to kill you, I still need you. You are too valuable for me to harm yet,” he says with a wink that should have me shaking in my boots, but has the complete opposite effect of warming me from the inside out.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pick up my fork and begin to eat the most amazing meal I have ever had in my life. There is something to be said for Italians and their cooking, and if something happens and this deal I have with Nico takes a bad turn, then I might order this dish as my last meal. I look at Nico then, and his smirk returns, looking at me like he knows exactly what I am thinking as I continue to shove the pasta in my mouth.
Asshole.
11
NICO
We have been in this room, going through boxes, for the past hour. I have been pulling them down and moving them around as Emilia sits on the floor, sorting and reviewing each piece of paper from top to bottom. She has piles of paper around her, all systematically sorted in a way that makes absolutely no sense to me.
Having been through each of these boxes over the past few weeks, I can’t imagine she will find anything, but she may see something we haven’t. Having no other leads, I need to try everything.
As she rummages through the latest box, I notice her pause, her hands holding something I can’t yet see. Intrigued, I step closer.
“What is it?” I ask her, but she doesn’t answer me, her eyes not moving from the box, from whatever is in her hands.
“Emilia?” I ask again, taking another few steps in her direction. She is holding a photo. I vaguely remember seeing it, but paid little attention to the family paraphernalia at the time, preferring to look at the paperwork, trying to find a trail.
“Is that you?” I squat next to her, looking more closely at the old photo in her hand. It is crumbled in the corners, but the little girl, with big blue sparkling eyes is front and center. She is sitting near a cake, a small chocolate one. I notice her hands are crossed against her chest and she has a grumpy look on her face. It’s adorable to know she has always been a handful.
“Yes. I think this was my birthday...” she says quietly, lost in thought. I watch her for a beat, caught up in her memories, before my body automatically moves and I sit on the floor next to her. Intrigued by the photo, I lean over to get a better look before she hands the photo over to me. “I remember it because it was the only birthday cake I ever had.” My head whips around to look at her.
“Really?” I ask, gobsmacked. As a child, I had birthday cakes and parties every year. Hell, if I am in Italy on my birthday, even now, my parents put on a celebration. It strikes me then at how different our upbringings were. Me in a house with both parents and a sibling, full of love, laughter, and quality time. Hers, by contrast, seemingly alone, with no mother to guide her, a father who didn’t care, and a brother who should have protected her but didn’t.
Now I am working for a criminal family, and she is the one on the right side of the law. Yet we both sit here in the apartment, looking over the same information, working together.
“The housekeeper found out it was my birthday and made me a small cake. It was delicious. But then my father heard what she did, and she was fired that night. The next day, I woke up to a new housekeeper, one who wasn’t allowed to speak to me and who ignored me every day.” I can see her eyes filling with tears, though her voice doesn’t waver. I wonder how a father can treat his own child like that, his daughter, no less. What were his motives?
She looks back at the box and pulls out something else. Following her gaze, I see an old newspaper clipping in her hand. I can’t read the story, but the headline says‘New York Socialite Laid to Rest After Car accident on Local Freeway.’
I watch her as she reads it, noticing her breaths coming quicker than before, the clipping shaking in her hands. My chest aches for her.
“Emilia?” I’m not sure what it is about this woman that makes me so soft, my voice no longer the demanding mafia soldier, but the young gentleman from Italy.
“This is about my mother...” she says, her words sounding broken. I know her mother died years ago, but paid little attention to the cause. “I didn’t know her. She died when I was just a year old.” Pausing, she swallows roughly. “It says here she was buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery.”
“You didn’t know?” I ask, already coming to the conclusion she didn’t. She looks at me then and shakes her head slowly, as a lone tear trails down her cheek.
I move quickly, my hand reaching for it before she can. Her glassy eyes look at me questioningly as I brush the tear away with my thumb, but don’t pull away. We stare at each other for a beat, my hand slowly cupping her jaw, and she leans into it a little. It’s the first sign she has given me that lets me know she feels at ease in my presence. And that show of trust…
“Nico,” Dante barks as he walks into the room, effectively snapping us both out of the moment. I swing my gaze to him, feeling her body jolt beside me. Instinctively, I put my hand down and rest it on her thigh, letting her know she’s okay. I give her a reassuring squeeze, a move Dante notices, and even though he has a scowl on his face, his eyebrows raise in question.
“We’ve got to go. Something has come up,” Dante says to me, then walks back out the door. I jump up, knowing something important must be going down.
