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What on earth could Ciro have possibly done to cause that reaction?
The bartender—Tommaso—was livid when Ciro’s name came up. What exactly am I suspected of being a part of?
These questions plague me on the walk back to the office. I never expected to reconnect with my stranger. And my disappointment—after the door leading to that opportunity’s been literally slammed in my face—guts me.
I want to see him.
I need to see him again.
I stop, squeeze my eyes shut, and right in the middle of a city sidewalk, make a rare wish, one that’s more promising than asking for my parents back. God, can’t you make this happen?
Someone bumps me from behind, but my request is already traversing the universe.
I reach the back end of our building and fiddle with the emergency exit lock. Entry into Ciro’s office will alleviate the need to walk an additional block to the main entrance. The city hasn’t relinquished its hold on the high temperatures yet.
I enter, then quickly close the door. Not bothering with the lights, I take a few moments, welcoming the blast of air-conditioning, before approaching his desk to place the envelope on it.
But what I find makes me want to strangle Ciro.
Papers are everywhere. The desk, the floor, even by the door. His office is complete and utter chaos. My hard work undone within an hour. What on earth was he looking for? And did he have to dump every file and cover every surface with paperwork?
Unbelievable.
Lord help my replacement.
“Ciro?” I call out in a hoarse tone, exiting into the workspace. I’m spitting mad. Kelly’s not talking to me. Tommaso tossed me out of the RV and threatened me, ending any realistic hope of me reuniting with my stranger. And Ciro’s toxic—like an insidious liquid seeping and creeping its way through my life.
I’m done.
I quit.
No sense yelling about it.
The sooner I tell him, the sooner I can return to our apartment and pack.
I search the kitchen, then head for the garage, crossing the large foyer to get there.
At first, I don’t see them. Six men circled together. Chins lifted and eyes focused on something above. I stop in my tracks, then instinctively look up toward the steel rafters.
I blink.
Ciro’s battered form swings back and forth while he hangs by his neck on a rope looped over a beam.
Beaten.
Dead.
Murdered.
By these six men.
“Oh my God.”
All their attention shifts to me.
A man with a huge scar on the left side of his face shoves the younger man next to him. “You said the place was cleared.”
“Fuck. It was. She came back.”
