Page 70 of Petrichor
“You saw that.” His index finger strokes his upper lip like he’s contemplating something—about me.
I nod, even though he didn’t ask. I see everything about Marco.
“That pendant is the spent bullet he shot when he got his revenge.”
Revenge against whom? When? What happened?
“I see all the questions firing inside your head.” He twirls a finger in front of my face. “All I’m going to say is that the person Marco killed with that bullet entered in his life and seduced him with betrayal in their mind.” He adds three teaspoons of sugar and then downs the coffee in two sips like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper.
“Because I want you to remember, Mr. Locke, that Marco tends to put his family first.”
Because of this event in his past? Does that mean that Marco would kill me if Don Sebastiano orders him to?
I tighten my fingers around the espresso cup. “Don Sebastiano, I know you’re trying to protect him and your family. But I can assure you hurting Marco is the last thing on my mind.”
“Sometimes we inflict pain even though our intentions are pure-ish, Mr. Locke.” He snaps his fingers, and one of the men hands him a thick envelope. He places it in front of me.
I can easily discern what’s inside. Money.
“Does Marco know…about my past?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me but pats the envelope. “Leave before it ends badly.”
He makes a gun with his fingers and points it at my head. My breath gets stuck inside my lungs for a moment. Then he thoroughly rubs his hands with the sanitizer, turns around, and leaves.
My eyes fall on the thick envelope once again.
I heard that when you’re on a plane, there’s a point of no return. I think this is it for me.
Chapter Ten
Fly
Three hours later, I pay the taxi driver and get out in front of a warehouse.
Marco sent me this address in Brooklyn with a time, seven p.m. The eerie feeling I’m sensing is twisting my guts in knots.
The sky is gray, and the air has that suffocating trait foreshadowing rain. For once, I’m not eagerly impatient for it. The smell of ocean and fish is overbearing. I move slowly until I reach the building and knock on the blue door. It makes an ominous cracking sound when a man I’ve never seen before opens it.
“Mr. Moretti is waiting.” His Italian accent is strong as he talks. He points to the left, and feeling anxious, I tighten my hand on my bag strap and walk into a large, gray, cold room.
There’s only one small window; in the corner of my eye I see a metal folding chair with what looks like a car battery on top of it and some wires, a table a couple of feet away. I stop my quick exploration as my eyes are caught by Marco’s back. He isn’t wearing his jacket. The brown shoulder holster looks prominent on the white shirt. Almost daunting.
He’s illuminated by a spotlight, like a fallen angel. But what makes me gasp is the man in front of him, hanging from the ceiling looking like a pig carcass at a slaughterhouse. Thick chains around his wrists are holding him up while his feet are not touching the ground.
He’s wearing only jeans stained with blood. He has cuts on his bare torso and bruises all over. Is he dead? His eyes are closed and his head is lolling down.
I think I’ve seen him before at the gay club with Art. It’s the guy that was staring at me, but I ignored because he looked too much like Marco. Art told me he fucked him afterward. He even sent me a picture of him sleeping—which I thought was creepy. What is he doing here? Who is he?
The rain started coming down. I can hear the constant drumming on the tin roof as Marco’s firm voice suddenly booms inside the warehouse. “Have you been plotting behind my back with Arturo Enzino?”
The doubt in his voice is hard to swallow.He’s not facing me. But the sight of the stiffness in his shoulders and the feel of the ice radiating from him makes me falter for a moment.
He really thinks I’ve been working with the Enzinos all this time when I didn’t even know Art was part of a mob family.
“We are friends.”
