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I nod and turn to head out.
“Zanetti.”
His voice takes on that smugness and condescension he can never hide. I halt in my tracks and turn back to face him. It takes everything in me not to put my fist through his ugly mug, wiping that self-absorbed expression off it.
“Do you have anything to report? Any strange behavior as far as my wife is concerned?”
“No,” I say, just like I do every morning when he calls me to debrief. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
***
As is usual when I accompany Mrs. Pisano to her mother’s place, I’m standing by the wall, my gaze fixed beyond the window. Her mother had fallen asleep on the sofa, and my charge headed out of the main room, saying she’ll wash the dishes before we leave. I’m mulling over her actions when the sound of breaking glass carries from the small kitchen area. My head snaps to the side, zeroing in on Mrs. Pisano, who’s standing in front of the sink, holding her hand under the stream of water.
“Ravi?”
“I’m okay, Mamma. Go back to sleep.” She looks down at her hand. “Shit.”
I cover the short distance between us and stand behind her. The blood is oozing from a nasty cut in the middle of her palm. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles as she tries to grab a kitchen towel with her other hand. “It was just a chipped cup.”
“Let. Me. See.”
Her hand hovers over the cloth. Slowly, she looks up, and those guarded greens meet my stare. I turn the water off and take her hand in mine, inspecting the cut. It’s not deep, but it is rather long, crossing diagonally across the whole surface of her palm.
“First aid kit?” I take a napkin from the holder and press it on her palm. Her hand is so damn small compared to mine.
“I don’t know,” she says in a barely audible voice and points to my left. “Maybe in the drawer where my mom keeps her medicine.”
There’s no first aid kit in the drawer, but I find a disinfectant spray and a small roll of bandage. I remove the napkin and spray her cut. Mrs. Pisano sucks in a breath, but doesn’t complain, and watches me in silence as I wrap the length of the bandage around her hand.
“Please don’t tell Rocco.”
I look up and pin her with my gaze. “Why?”
“Just don’t. Please.”
I place my palms on the counter on either side of her, caging her in, and lean forward. “What happens to the clothes and the other stuff you buy when you leave them with your mother?”
Ravenna’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “Did you tell my husband?”
“No.”
She blinks in confusion. “Will you?”
“Nope.” I tilt my head to the side and study her. “Are you selling that stuff? Do you need money?”
A mix of uncertainty and trepidation flares in her eyes. Her pulse picks up, hastening her breaths, as well. It lasts but a moment before she pulls herself together, straightening her spine.
“Rocco never puts a spending limit on my card.” She juts her chin slightly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Well, that’s the only answer you’ll get.”
The corner of my lips curve upward. I’ve never seen her talking back to Rocco like this. She is usually skittish around him. My size tends to alarm most people, especially women. They get spooked whenever I’m near, whether there’s a real cause or not. Taking this assignment, I kind of expected that Ravenna would be, too. She’s not. Seems like there is much more to Ravenna Pisano than meets the eye.
“What are you doing at the spa? The invoices, receipts . . . Accounting with Hazel?”
