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“You’re a woman,” I said, even when my statement was weak.
“And yet, I know the Mafia just as well as any made-man. You just don’t want to see it.”
Perhaps.
We stared at one another. Neither backed down. Her eyes hardened, and her mask returned quickly, leaving no emotion behind. I wondered how much she had seen. How much had she heard? How much has she suffered in the hands of her own family to be able to hide it all so fast, so easily. A master of minds and feelings.
The answer wasenough. Katia Vitelli had been trapped long before I came along.
This was the reason I didn’t want to learn about her. The real reason I never asked Viktor for a file of her. I didn’t want to humanize her. Because the more I did, the more of a threat to me she would be.
“Rio is waiting outside. We should go.” Katia placed her sunglasses over her features and faced me.
Our conversation was over, and it felt unsettling to leave it behind. But that was what I did. I couldn’t risk saying more. I, too, needed to regain control and step out as if nothing had been said.
I walked out of the car and headed for her door. Katia had already opened it, and I gritted my teeth against saying anything. Instead, I took her hand until her body slid into the open air and Miami’s heat by my side.
Our walk was quiet and short with Rio in tow. Sergio was waiting inside as we stepped in but quickly left, leaving only us and a young guy behind the counter.
Long surfer-style hair covered half of his face as he paid no attention. It remained in the sketchbook that sat on the counter. An eraser rested near his drawing with droppings sprinkled around his work area and onto the floor.
“Welcome toColour,” he mumbled, with a half-assed wave that showed his lead-stained fingers before he returned back to his sketch.
Soft Indie pop music played in the background. A few plants were scattered around the shop in big pots while rows of materials were neatly placed for sale. Checkered floors spread, mimicking the same white and black colors, throughout the store. It was a quaint little place where the only splashes of color that popped up were the utensils they sold.
Katia had relaxed and walked a few feet away from me, comfortably scanning the shelves. The more I followed her trail, the more out of place I felt.
There was so much material. So much paper, they had stacks and columns of it; supposedly, they were all different. From textures, weights, cuts, and don’t get me started on the colored pencils.
I begged to differ that red was red, and black was black. You wanted a lighter black? Pick a gray. Not dark enough?
Just press harder.
Katia stopped ahead of me, and I tried giving her space, but when she kept playing with the same twopencils, unableto decide between them, I gave up. While each of her hands held one and her fingers twirled them with ease at their tips, I made my way to her. She had been so concentrated with the unmarked wood sticks of lead that I left some space between her back and me.
“Just get them both,” I murmured inside the quiet space.
Her palms closed, trapping the pencils in a tight grip.
“You are just ready to leave.”
I was.
“It’s an easy decision.”
“Is it?” Her tone rose, clearly her words meant more.
“You got more to say?”
She exhaled loudly, and I closed the distance, submitting to her sweet cherry scent and faint perfume.
“No,” she replied without weakening her grip.
Give an inch, take away more.I looked down over her shoulder to the pencils and lowered to her ear. “Why are they different?”
Her head inclined to my voice, as I’d chosen to speak in Italian, and her shoulders fell from their guarded position.
She couldn’t see my smile.
