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I laugh at her sarcastic tone, then take a bite of my toast.
“Anyway,” she says amidst the scent of the flowers and the warm sunshine. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“That’s not much of a description.”
“Feelings have always been more your thing,” I say, trying for a bantering tone, but it sounds wrong and way too real. “How areyou?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You’ve seemed tense on Skype.”
She flinches, and she’s right. Iamchanging the subject because I have to. Talking about one feeling could lead toallfeelings.
“I have?”
“Yes,” I say, “and there’s the stuff about not being able to visit each other. I feel like something’s going on. I didn’t want to say anything until we met in person.”
She drops her toast, tears off a piece, then picks up the original section. Then she puts it down again.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Hmm.”
“What’shmm? You’re not Sherlock Holmes.”
“I don’t need to be. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. I don’t mean to pry.”
She glances at the doors, her features tight.
“I read some stories about construction in the city. Apparently, there have been union strikes. I heard it’s getting ugly. Threats and stuff like that.”
Since Mom died, Rosa has been reluctant to share her problems with me. I get why. She’d prefer if I unloaded on her, but that’s never been our dynamic since we were kids.
I’m always the listener. I like that.
“Oh, yeah,” Rosa says. “That.”
“Does it have anything to do with—”
We both jump to our feet when the doors burst open. I step back, knowing the fumes of this city have to be worse than the West Coast. I’m hallucinating. A half-naked man emerges into the garden, a streak of blood down his face. He’s panting, scrawny, with shell-shocked eyes and a large chunk torn from his hair.
A second later, one of Rosa’s staff members appears. Like most Italians, he wears a slick suit, and his earpiece and sunglasses tell me he’s security.
The half-naked man turns and spreads his arms. “You can’t do this.”
“Get over here.”
The man leaps, grabs a vase, and throws it. The guard tries to approach, but after the vase shatters—Rosa gasps, grabs my arm, and I stare dumbfounded—the man grabs a shard. He squeezes, not caring it causes him to bleed, and waves it at the guard.
“I’ll cut you to pieces.” The man’s accent is heavy, maybe Russian. “I’ll slice you up good.”
Soon, more guards join the first four. They fan out around the half-naked man and then close in. One takes a slice to the forearm, grunting in pain, but soon they’ve got him pressed against the floor with a knee in his back and a blade to his throat.
Deep in the back of my mind, past the shock, a small voice whispers, So, this is what I’ve been missing.
It seems so obvious now.
