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If one of my guys beat someone to death in a well-lit, photographed alley, he’s stupid and he deserves to spend the rest of his life behind bars. “Be careful with your accusations, Chief. The Valenti’s are big supporters of this town. We’ve always donated to the police fund even when your guys pull stupid shit like accusing me of a murder I clearly have an alibi for.” My joking tone is suddenly more serious. This is the first time since I was picked up off the street by a fucking traffic cop that I’m done playing games. “The next time one of your officers hauls me in for questioning of a crime I had nothing to do with, I’ll bring my lawyer in to draw up papers to sue this department. Are we clear?”
I watch as his thick, disgusting tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip. I want to reach across the table and grab it right out of his mouth. He’d be better off if he couldn’t speak.
“You should have just taken the fall, Raniero. Because now I’m going to investigate every Italian in the city and if I have to throw people in jail over unpaid parking tickets or jaywalking, I’ll do it.” Grant stands up and leans his weight onto the table. “I will bring down the Valenti family one by one if I have to. Eventually, someone is going to crack under the strain of questioning. That’s when I’ll bring you down. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see your ass behind bars.”
If my lawyer were here, he’d advise to me keep my mouth shut and wait for them to release me. But my lawyer is in Boca Raton and the only thing stopping me from snapping the neck of this insolent Police Chief is the fact that I’m on his turf.
I match his body language and get to my feet, leaning forward until our faces are only a few inches apart. “You do what you have to do, Grant, but remember that your actions have consequences. If you want to threaten my family, you better protect yours. Because I’m coming foreveryoneyou’re related to.”
“You hurt my family and I’ll kill you in broad daylight with a crowd watching. No one will find me guilty when I tell them what you did.” Grant turned off the recorder in the room when he arrived because he knew what was going to happen. He knew that he was going to waltz in here, throw out a few threats, and hope I said or did something that could get me arrested.
But I’ve never been easy to capture or kill and I’m not starting today. “Who said anything about hurting them?”
A plan is already formulating. I’ll need to do a background check to find out where his wife and kids are. If I have to traipse halfway across the country to find them in their college dorms, I’ll do it. No one threatens the Valenti family on my watch.
2
CALLIOPE
In second grade when the teacher asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, I didn’t say realtor. No one did. But now that we’re adults, our faces are everywhere.
Mine decorates half a dozen lawns in Manhattan, all with a price point of $250,000 or less. The commission from selling any of those homes would keep me afloat for a couple of months, but in the meantime, I’m couch surfing and living off the goodwill of my friends.
But today everything is going to change; I can feel it. The scent of budding flowers is in the air and my newest listing is buzzing. A Sunday open house often brings in the neighbors and the nosy, but there are a few interested parties this afternoon.
And frankly, who wouldn’t be interested? Sharon Ray is selling her bi-level split four-bedroom, three-bathroom home for less than market value. The curb appeal is promising as the house resides in a coveted neighborhood. All the appliances were replaced within the last year and the kitchen had a full renovation three years ago. Everything about this place reeks of money and privilege—and worth at least $50,000 more.
But if the people peeking in her drawers and looking through her closets knew that she was selling this place because her husband fucked the neighbor on the shiny new kitchen island, they might show a little less enthusiasm. In lieu of the whole truth, I tell the potential buyers strolling through the house that the seller is upgrading. That isn’t a lie. With a cheating husband and a neighbor that can’t keep her hands off other peoples’ property, getting a divorce and buying a new houseisan upgrade.
When 2:00 pm rolls around, it comes with a burst of new potential buyers. All are couples, but they range across very different walks of life. One man asks if I can give him my client’s number. When I turn him down, he huffs, grabs his girlfriend, and storms out. If he’s looking to undercut my sale by negotiating directly with the seller, he’s got the wrong girl.
The truth is I like being a realtor. It isn’t my dream job, but it has its perks. I make my own schedule and can come in as early or as late as I want. I do have to work some weekends, but it’s never all day. I get to spend time outside and I’m always meeting new people. The commissions aren’t bad either—whenyou sell a house, of course.
“Ma’am,” a woman snaps her fingers to get my attention and I consider ignoring her. I am not a dog to be summoned and sent away at will. “Ma’am, how many other people have put an offer in on this house?”
I can’t tell her that. Nor can I tell her what those offers are even if there were any. The housejustwent on the market thirty-six hours ago; does she expect people to have made offers already? This isn’t the height of the pandemic when homes were sold within four hours. “I’m afraid I can’t share that information.” I paste a smile on my face and stare at the hideous broach on her chest.
“But youdohave offers,” she says snidely. “That’ll be all.” Her tone is dismissive. It makes me want to cross the living room and slap the smug look off her face.
While this job has its perks, it has its downsides, too. Like dealing with jerks that think it’s your job to kiss their ass and get them whatever they want. I might work on commission, but my soul is worth more than a few thousand dollars. I won’t be mistreated to earn a couple of bucks. I’m not that desperate. Anymore, anyway.
As the minutes pass, the guests filter out little by little until it’s 2:45 and the last couple has left. I could shut the open house down early and take those extra fifteen minutes for myself; it’s not as though anyone would know. But just as I’m contemplating locking all the doors and leaving, a car pulls up in front of the property. A black Tesla from the look of it.
I mess with the papers on the counter that highlight the details of the house while I wait for the prospective buyer to come in. I’m surprised to see a single man get out of the car, but maybe his wife is meeting him in a few minutes or perhaps she’s working. Nonetheless, I pull a smile onto my face when he walks through the door.
“Am I too late?” He asks as he crosses the threshold. He looks around the living room until he spots me in the kitchen. “I can set up an appointment if that would be easier.”
I come from behind the island and give him a dismissive wave. He seems nice enough with an easygoing smile and unassuming body language. “No, come in,” I usher him forward. “A lot of people came before or after church, so you’re probably lucky you came so late. There are significantly fewer people here than an hour ago.”
The man breathes a sigh of relief and gently closes the door behind him. “Great. Thanks! My wife told me to drop by earlier, but I lost track of time. She wouldn’t have forgiven me if I didn’t check this place out in person.”
Though his salt and pepper locks make me think he’s in his forties, for a moment after he walked through the door, I thought he was attractive. That comes to a screaming halt when he mentions his wife, though I must admit that I don’t see a ring on his finger. “You’re welcome to walk around and check the place out. If you have any questions, let me know. It’s a generous four-bedroom, three-bathroom home with plenty of space for a family. Do you have any kids?”
He looks around the open-concept living room and kitchen that flow seamlessly together. I notice the sharp line of his jaw beneath the freshly trimmed beard. “No, no kids yet. It’s in the cards though,” he mumbles as he walks over to the kitchen island and runs his fingers across the marble countertop. “Could you give me a tour?” When he looks up to meet my eyes, I catch a hint of embarrassment in his gaze. “I don’t want to miss anything important. When my wife asks me what I saw, I want to be able to parrot your answers back to her.”
I have nothing else to do. The alternative is to wait around in the kitchen for him to finish checking out the downstairs. “I’m happy to be of assistance. I’m Calliope, by the way.”
He pushes a hand in my direction while wearing a charming smile that nearly takes my breath away. “Raniero,” he introduces himself. “Calliope is such a pretty name.”
