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7
EMILIA
“What a fucking mess.”
If Craig has one skill, it’s his ability to sum up a situation in a handful of words. I can’t disagree as we stand side by side, watching the forensics investigators work the scene of yet another vicious killing. This time, a trio of young men were shot execution-style and left face down in an empty lot between two currently unused commercial buildings. The killer or killers pulled the victims’ driver’s licenses from their wallets and left them on the corresponding men’s backs as if they were doing us a favor, saving us a step.
It took all of five minutes to pull their extensive records. “No surprise, them working for the Santoros,” I murmur, gazing around at the surrounding area and noting the brisk foot traffic on this block. Something tells me nobody heard anything, though. Witnesses tend to feel safer that way, especially when a murder bears all the hallmarks of a gangland execution. “I’m starting to wish I never heard the name,” I mumble under my breath.
Captain Stuart joins us, hunching his shoulders against the unseasonably cold air. The sky is slate gray, and the clouds seem to hang low enough that even somebody as short as me could reach up and swirl them around. “Our intel sources are all coming back with the same information. It’s all tied up in a shipment of guns out of Sicily picked up by ATF.”
“Sicily. That’s the Santoros, right?” Craig asks.
“And Allesandro Vitali wants to make sure everybody knows he tipped them off.” The captain sighs while rubbing a hand over his scruff-covered jaw. “I’d bet my pension on him plotting to knock his old man off and speed up the process of taking over the family business. He’s chomping at the bit already.”
Allesandro has a notoriously short temper as it is, and according to the research I’ve poured so much of my time into, he might be the worst possible person to be in charge of a wealthy, violent mafia family. Only Giorgio has ever held his son in check. With nobody holding the reins, things are bound to get bloodier.
“You okay, Washington?” Craig drapes an arm over my shoulders before I can stop him. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine. It’s cold out, but it won’t kill me.” I shrug him off as I always do when he finds a reason to initiate physical contact. I wonder if he’d be so chivalrous toward his wife if she shivered. Part of me wants to ask.
Instead of starting a fight in front of our captain, I jerk my chin toward the coffee shop at the end of the block. “I’ll get something to warm me up. Be right back.” I’m already on my way across the street before I realize I never offered to pick anything up for them. I’d turn back, but it feels safer to put space between my partner and me when I want to claw his eyes out for touching and infantilizing me and somehow sexually harassing me at the same time.
I’m on edge. That much is clear.
Days later, the sensation is stronger than ever. I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Somebody is following me. Invading my space. The energy in my apartment is all off and out of whack. There’s a charge in the air when I get home at night. I’ve considered getting a hotel room for the sake of a night’s peace.
A shriek pierces the air, and I jump, then curse myself when two kids run past. I can’t handle being in public now? What the hell is happening to me?
“Don’t push yourself too hard, sweetie.” How many times have I heard that one from my parents? You’d think they’d be proud of me, but all they seem interested in is whether I’m pushing myself too hard. Who wants to hear that day in and day out?
I’m almost relieved this situation coincides with their three-month trip through the Australian Outback since one look at the circles under my eyes would set off an explosion of questions and concerns.
I wonder whether they have a point. Am I working myself too hard? My nerves are shredded, and I can’t sleep. I’d swear there was somebody in my room a few nights back. At the time, I thought I was having weird dreams thanks to the wine, but waking up to a partly open dresser drawer was like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head.
I’m starting to doubt what’s real and what’s my imagination.
I order a large coffee without thinking much about it. I’m too busy examining the small but bustling shop and its customers. Is the guy in the corner looking at me over the top of his newspaper? Is the woman typing on her laptop watching me before I look her way? It seems as if her head snapped around, and her typing picked up speed.
The walls are closing in. My heart is going to pound out of my chest. I need air. There are too many people around. The second my coffee is poured, I’m on my way to the door, almost fleeing until I burst out into the cold again and pull in as deep a breath as I can manage. Something has to give. I can’t take this much longer.
I have to get myself together before facing Craig or the captain again. Coffee was probably not the best idea. Lord knows I don’t need to be any jumpier, but then I could use the caffeine to shake off the brain fog three nights of broken sleep have left me with.
I’m making up things in my head. I saw something horrible—or think I did—and it screwed with my brain. Should I talk to the department therapist? It would mean admitting the risk I took that night.
The light in front of me turns green, and I should cross and get back to work down the block. Knowing Craig would never let me live it down if I cracked up and needed to go on leave is what propels me off the curb, ready to throw my shoulders back and push my way through whatever the hell is eating at me.
“Emilia!”
I freeze at the sound of a man barking my name, then turn on my heel and look in the direction the sound came from. It was loud and sharp enough that it sounded like a warning.
“Look out!” a woman screams, and it rings out a split second before a speeding car clips my right hip and thigh. My coffee goes flying, and so do I, hitting the ground while sudden, sharp pain makes the world tilt on its side and spin around me. My cry of surprise is drowned out by a revving engine and squealing tires, soon followed by the concerned voices of witnesses now flying to my side.
Where is he? I didn’t see him, whoever he was. He called my name and stopped me from getting run over.
“I’m telling you, I’m fine,” I huff out, frustration seeping into my words.
The look the men exchange makes me want to scream. I know exactly what they’re thinking. I guess I would think it if I was in their shoes. I mean, I am lying on a gurney in the ER after being x-rayed.
