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The shower basin looks clean, if not glamorous, and I take a swift shower in the tiny space, cringing at the sound of the water moving through the old pipes. When I leave the bathroom, I am only wearing my camisole over my bra and my pants, yesterday’s underwear hanging freshly washed and damp over the sink. My St. Francis necklace rests cold against my skin.
When I come into the kitchen, Luca is rooting through the kitchen cabinets. He straightens and gives me a cursory glance before turning back to his quest. “I think there’s coffee somewhere around here.”
“No, thank you. This place is a sty.” My lip curls. “Honestly, Luca, couldn’t we have gone to a hotel or something? Why on earth are the Marzanos using a place like this as a safe house—”
He pulls a mug from the cabinet and closes the door with precision. “It did the job, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’m probably going to have to go get a cootie shot when I leave—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, woman.” He whirls around, mouth open to say something, but stops, his expression arrested.
His look is hungry, and I glance down to find the water from my hair has dampened my camisole, leaving it nearly transparent over my lacy bra.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I raise my chin in challenge. My fingers drift to my necklace.
Before my eyes, his heated expression changes, turning to sadness tinged with anger. He points at the necklace.
“St. Francis?”
I frown. “Yes, I wear it for—”
“Your brother.”
I close my eyes and inhale, then open them on an exhale. “I get it, Luca.”
“You understand nothing.”
“We both lost him. That much I understand.”
Luca stares at me, his fingers clenching around the mug in his hand. We both lost Francis. He was younger, but he and Luca were close, drawn together by merit of shared history and background. The three of us used to hang out at gatherings of the Five Families. I’ve never understood why we couldn’t talk about him together, share the burden of his loss between us.
“You were friends,” I say now and take a step in his direction. “We should talk about it.”
He looks away, his throat working. “Not right now. We have other things to figure out.”
“Right. Okay. Well, maybe you could DoorDash me some coffee and a danish—“
“Fuck the coffee. You had no business being in the Pits last night! Your accusation was…was…” He searches for the word. “Ridiculous at best, dangerous at worst. I was a child when the Pits were opened, Carina. You realize that, right? There is no way I’m running them.”
He’s closing up on me again, tucking that brief flash of feeling away. It pisses me off.
“You could have taken over for your father.” I watch him closely. His anger is a tell, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Having Francis killed was a hit on my family as a whole, so it makes sense that your father would’ve been the one to initiate that.”
“Goddamn it!”
Luca throws the coffee cup against the wall to my right, and it shatters. It’s far enough away that the pieces don’t come close to hitting me, but I flinch all the same, just barely holding my position as he stalks close to me.
“Whatever happened between us, whatever I am now, you know I am not that kind of monster.”
I look up at him, inches away from me. My breath comes faster, and I fix my gaze on the pulse in his throat. The perverse part of me wants to lean in and fasten my mouth on it. “I have to go back, find out what has been going on there.”
Luca threads his fingers through my hair, tipping my head back. His gaze bores into mine. “No. You’re playing a dangerous game, Carina. Doing it my way is a better way to get the information you want. Believe it or not, I do have a plan.”
I hold myself stiffly within his grasp. “How could you possibly have a plan? Finding Francis’s killer wasn’t even on your radar until I brought it to your attention last night.”
“How would you know that? You think I haven’t been tormented by the same fucking thing for years?”
Sincerity rings in his voice, making me pause. I stare at him, searching his eyes for the lie. There is none, and I sag against him.
