Page 105 of Beautiful Scars

“Best bolognese in town,” Cillian says. And despite what we were just discussing, there’s a laugh in his voice.

He gets out, killing his cigarette before coming around and opening the door for me. But instead of going up to one of the closed garage-door style entrances on this street, he takes me into an alleyway between two tall, brick-faced warehouses.

“So gangsters only come in the back?” I ask, shaking my head. What was I expecting? Cillian’s nothing more than a high-level thug, so of course he can’t use the front entrance like normal people.

“I like it when you talk dirty,” he says, this time sending an outright chuckle my way.

“Doos,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around me as I trail behind him. He walks us to a metal door further down the alley and slams his fist onto it a few times. I’m surprised small furry things don’t flee in the wake of the noise he makes.

I was kinda looking forward to this...until now. The last thing I ate was Sarah’s sandwich, and that was a long time ago. Sure, I don’t burn all that many calories when I’m binge-watching Tiny Houses, but still, a girl’s gotta eat.

But I’m not seeing any red-checkered tablecloths and breadsticks in my near future. Maybe being tied up and tortured for a bit, but that’s about it.

As Cillian raises his hand, there’s the sound of a key on the other side. He drops down one step, standing aside as the door swings outward.

A man with barely a fringe of white hair remaining on his shiny head sticks his head out of the doorway. “Cillian, my boy!”

If Kill hadn’t just relayed how he’d brutally murdered his father in cold blood...well, I’d have been mistaken thinking this guy was his pops. Cillian steps up and slings an arm around the old timer’s shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug that makes the older man’s eyes goggle from his head.

“Long time, Lorenzo,” Cillian says. “How’s the leg?”

Lorenzo lets out a quiet chuckle. “Better than most men my age.”

I quirk an eyebrow at Cillian’s back.

“Come in.” Lorenzo looks past Kill’s shoulder, straight at me. “Signora, please, come in. You’ll catch your death out there.” And then, I shit you not, he gives Cillian a disapproving frown. “What are you doing with her out in the cold like this? You should be ashamed.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Cillian’s defense—and maybe that’s why Kill doesn’t bother providing one. The old man turns on his heel and disappears inside, his liver-spotted hand beckoning us with a furious wave.

Cillian glances back at me and holds out his hand again. This time I don’t hesitate to take it, and I swear there’s a flash of disappointment on his face.

“Thought we’d get to two before we walked through the door?” I ask quietly as he pulls me close.

He stares down at me, his eyes narrowing for a second. But before I can figure out what he’s thinking, he bundles me against his side and takes me inside, closing the door and locking it behind us.

We head down a narrow brick-face corridor on a gentle descent to the basement level of whatever building we’re in. A few wire-framed light bulbs illuminate the passage every few feet. The only things missing are the dramatic spiderwebs and the sound of mice scurrying away from us.

“I’m starting to think you have a certain fondness for dungeons, Don Cillianos.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” is all Kill says.

And I do.

Dear God, I do.

The passage ends in a wide door. The varnish makes the dark wood gleam, bringing to life the intricate forest scene carved on its surface. I barely have more than a moment to study it before Cillian opens it for us and ushers me through with his fingertips pressed to the curve of my back.

I stop mid-step when my mind catches up with my eyes.

“Used to be smuggler’s vaults down here. A tavern above,” Cillian says somewhere above my head. “Lorenzo keeps the bar upstairs for the tourists, and the downstairs for...locals. Well, the locals like me who keep irregular hours.”

“It’s beautiful.” Which was about as big an understatement as calling dinosaurs large lizards.

Ebony wall panels. Intimate, crushed velvet booths. Moody lighting that makes the dark polished tables gleam. A long mahogany bar fitted against one wall dazzles with row upon row of wine and liquor in front of the mirrored backboard.

Soft jazz music and low-key chatter fill the space. Women wearing sleek dresses and even sleeker hair perch on barstools and tall cocktail stools scattered around the space, some surrounded by two or three men, some drinking alone, some drinking with friends. A few men at the bar seem to be here alone, others gang together in booths.

Cillian moves past me on the narrow landing and, taking my hand, leads me down the small flight of steps. A few people glance up at us, some greet him with an, “Alright, mate,” but many don’t do more than make eye contact with Kill before quickly looking away. Almost all the women, when they do spot him, light up...until they see me. Then it’s as if someone just told them their credit card declined.