I bit my lip, my heart racing. I stared at him for a long moment, unable to move, unable to look away.
But a moment later, he released me. He slid his hand from my hair, dropped my wrist, and stepped back. His eyes were hard as he gestured at the door.
“Go ahead and leave,” he said. “You know what I want from you now. Go ahead and walk out that door, go back to your apartment. Just remember that I warned you about this shit. I tried to help you.”
He turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hallway again.
I stayed still, heart racing. I didn’t trust myself to move yet. I touched my cheek where his palm pressed against my skin, and I thought I could still feet his skin ghosting against mine. I tilted my head and bit my lip, staring down the hallway, wondering what it would be like if I really did give myself to my father’s killer, if I really did let that man have me.
I know I’d never walk away from it the same again.
I turned to the door and touched the knob. I wanted to leave so badly, but his words rang in my ears, and the image of my father’s body wrapped in plastic came back to me all over again. I shut my eyes and tried to force it away, but I couldn’t.
This wasn’t a game. That man wasn’t playing around. If he said things were dangerous for me in the city, then things were dangerous. If he was offering me protection, I had to take it.
I dropped the doorknob. I turned from the door and stepped to the base of the stairs. I wanted to retch, wanted to throw up, wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my eyes out until there was nothing left inside of me.
I caught a glimpse of him in the kitchen, watching as I climbed the stairs and headed back to the room I’d slept in the night before. I went inside, shut the door behind me, locked it, and crawled into bed. I pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes and willed the world to go back to the way it was before I let my father talk me into the biggest mistake I’d ever made.
3
Dante
The Southside Bakery was empty the next morning just after the crack of dawn. I could see Sergio in the back room finishing up the morning’s bread as I went behind the counter and made myself an espresso. When it was finished, I stood there for a moment and took a long sip of the rich, strong black coffee.
My eyes scanned the room. The wooden tables and counters were empty, and would stay empty for another hour until the place opened at five thirty. Pastries were arranged under the glass display case, placed there by Sergio a little bit before I arrived. The smell of baked goods wafted from the back room and I took a deep breath for a moment, letting the smell draw me back into my childhood, back into my mother’s kitchen.
I closed my eyes and let out my breath.
Aida stayed in her room all yesterday and all that night. I had Gino watch over her, and he said she never once came out. He brought her a meal, which disappeared inside, but he didn’t hear a peep.
But I checked on her. A little after midnight, when I got back from the job, I opened the door and saw her body sprawled out on the bed. The shaft of light from the hallway illuminated her long, lean, pale legs, her perky ass, her tight tank top with one strap down her shoulder, her mass of thick black hair splayed out on the pillow. I shut the door quietly and let her sleep.
I opened my eyes again and came out from behind the counter. I began to take down the chairs and stools from where they’d been put up the day before. I grabbed a spray bottle and a rag then wiped down the tables, their scarred wooden tops covered in a thick layer of lacquer, and made sure they were pristine. I arranged the front display of fake plastic cupcakes, made sure they weren’t falling over or dusty, and wiped down the pastry case next to the counter. I went to refill the milk and creamer just as Sergio came out from the back with a big tray of sourdough bread.
He spotted me and grinned. “You know you don’t have to do that,” he said as I opened the top of the silver container and began to dump in the milk I took from the refrigerator underneath the espresso machine.
“I don’t mind,” I said. “Keeps me busy.”
He snorted. Sergio was in his fifties, heavy in the middle, big bags under his eyes from working nights his whole life. His hands were rough and scarred, and his hair was a shock of black and gray, shoved back in a lazy wave. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he was missing a tooth on the bottom. Despite that, Sergio was sharp, one of the smartest men I knew. There was a reason he was a former Capo for the Leone family and was allowed to retire in peace. Not many mobsters got to walk away from the life, but Sergio did.
At least so long as he let me use his bakery for whatever nefarious purposes I came up with. Usually money laundering, but sometimes I borrowed the refrigerator.
“Pretty sure you’re plenty busy.” He took the tray to the baskets stacked up on the counter behind the pastry display case and began to put the loaves inside. The white bread was already stacked high, and I could
