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He struggles to breathe and I’m not going to help him here. He shakes his head, barely able to move.
“Just for the record, I don’t want any part of Emilio Randazzo’s fucking sex trafficking business in Europe. Let the Bratva have it.” Or even better, give Interpol all the access they need to dismantle it all together. I know someone who knows someone who has been trying to break through these rings for decades. It would be my pleasure to hand it to him on a platter.
The Don struggles but can’t get a word out, so I ease the pressure a bit. “Let me guess, your third request is either to kill Peter Armstrong, or to kill you? To spare you the suffering of a painful cancer death.”
“The girl,” he croaks. “Alive—father—daughter…”
I squeeze harder.
“What was that?” I mock. The Armstrongs? As in plural. Father and daughter. My wife? If I didn’t already have enough motive for killing him, asking me to kill both the Armstrongs would tip me over. “You? Help you along?” I sneer at him. “Know this when you die today, I’m doing it for my mother, who you killed through childbirth. I’m killing you for every son she’s borne, for every brother of mine, and for that baby girl that would have been the light of our lives. And lastly,” I hiss as I tighten my grip, “I’m killing you for my wife. For Tasha. Two for two, you motherfucker.” I clasp my hand over his mouth and nose, holding still and blocking his airflow. He is so weak, he barely struggles.
It’s done in less than a minute, his body slumping in the seat. I let go of him, not an inch of remorse.
Behind him are his cupboards and drawers filled with files. The filth he’s gathered on every person he’s ever worked with or wanted to bribe. It’s a treasure chest, really, the most valuable of his assets. I open the cupboards, not really interested in keeping anything. We’ve moved on and have everything electronically. The Don was old school like this.
I pick out Peter Armstrong’s file, thick and heavy. This is the last hope I have for Tasha—for us. She’s not going to like it, but she needs to know.
When I turn back to the desk, Bruno is sitting upright on the carpet, probably sensing his master is dead. He stares blindly towards the Don and the Don stares blindly back from his chair. I pick up the sardine tins and empty them out completely on the plate. I pull the signet ring off the finger, wipe my hand on some tissues the Don has on his desk, and make sure the ring is clean before I pocket it.
I walk over to the dog and put the plate down, tissues and all, then pat him on the head. There’s nothing wrong with Bruno’s sense of smell, and he knows this is meat. He digs in, eating through the soiled tissues, eyeballs, and ears, then crunching through the little finger. Then he licks the plate clean.
“Good dog,” I say. “You always ate like a king.”
I take Armstrong’s file and walk out of the office, not looking back once.
61
TASHA
I took half an hour to scroll through my social media. I’m not sure who has been in charge of my profiles, but they did an excellent job in keeping me absently present. Apparently, I went on a surprise trip with my dad to some backwater adventure in Canada where there’s no network. A perfect place to be eaten by a bear and disappear permanently. I couldn’t be bothered to know more or even see what my friends have been up to.
For now, I’m in this bubble, and I don’t want out of it. Not until I’ve digested everything, and I suspect it’s going to take months, maybe years. People might have questions and I’m not ready to answer any of them. Matteo was right when he said I should take my time before I respond to any messages.
For all I know, Matteo has changed his mind about me going back to my studies. We’re balancing on a tightrope and the only way to get across is by taking each other’s hands and helping one another along. Beyond sex, neither of us has been the first to reach out for the other; stubborn.
I’ve been to check in with Burley. Rosalia has done her daily dose of cleaning. I’m channel-hopping because there’s nothing else to do but wait for my husband. I hate being in this apartment alone. When he said he was going to the Don, with those two sardine cans in tow, I shuddered. That was hours ago, and I hate that I’m this worried. He’s crawled so deeply into my heart in such a short amount of time. I can’t imagine life before Matteo. It’s as if I didn’t have a life, and I guess I really didn’t.
I’m tempted to phone him, but I don’t want to disturb him when he’s in the middle of something serious.
When the front door opens, I sigh in secret relief. This is going to be my life going forward. Waiting, wondering, praying for him to come back. His gait is something I start to recognize when he isn’t soft-footing around so he can creep up on you. I get up, wanting to hurl myself at him, but hold back as he appears around the corner in the open plan living area.
This man… He was born to wear a suit. Sexy Italian to his core. From the way he spoke Italian it’s clear it’s his mother tongue. To have a sneak peek into his life growing up would be so insightful.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly shy with the way his gaze consumes me. It’s that look in his eyes, the way he touches me, the things he says that make me want to believe that he isn’t indifferent to me. That this marriage, which I entered into under some duress if I look at it closely, isn’t the Don’s or even Matteo’s ultimate revenge against my dad.
“Kitten.” He looks tired, but in a good way.
“Are you okay?” I want to ask how his meeting went, but that would cross into territory I’m not ready for.
“Never better.” He walks up to me and holds out a thick file. “This is for you.”
I take the file from him. It’s heavy. “Okay.” I read the label on the side. Armstrong, Peter. “Oh God. What is this?”
Matteo walks to the kitchen as he strips off his jacket and throws it onto the barstool by the island. The gun and holster go too and I’m relieved. I hate having that thing around all the time. “Dirt. On your dad. Do you want to go through it together?”
My knees want to buckle with the weight of his words, never mind the weight of the file which speaks of more than just a little dirt. I don’t want to know, yet I slump back on the sofa and flip the file open. I take in the first few pages and my stomach turns. Such detail. Photos. Copies of emails and other papers. I swallow at the bile that stirs in my stomach. This is just the beginning. Before I was even born.
When Matteo comes over, he puts a glass of water and one of Rosalia’s fruit platters on the coffee table. The man likes his food healthy. I can’t stomach a thing. “Where did you get this?”
