Page 33 of Theta

"Do you trust me?"

I let out a breath, considering. I know the instinctive answer—of course. But deep down, where it counts, do I trust him with my life?

The answer is the same.

"Yes," I answer. "I do."

He jogs back into the flat and returns a moment later with the now-unbound guard. "Story, this is Enzo; Enzo, this is Story."

Enzo peers down at me—he's a massive man, built like a bear, standing a few inches taller than Killy and nearly as wide as he is tall, with a rounded belly hanging over his belt. Dark eyes, shaggy black hair, thick black beard. But those eyes—they're not killer's eyes; I should know.

"I am please to meet you, Signorina Story. I regret my part in this and I do not want you to be the victim of Signore Pugli. He is a very, very evil man. Only for my daughter would I do such a thing as this."

I still have the gun in my hand—I brandish it at him. "You do not have my trust yet, Signore Enzo."

"Does Pugli have your daughter?" Killian asks.

"We need to go," I snap over his question. "We can interrogate Enzo later. Where's the car that goes to this?" I ask him, showing him the keys I found.

Enzo points down the street away from the marina. "That way, maybe one hundred meters."

"Lead the way," I say.

"Wait, wait. Un momento, per favore." Enzo grabs a man by the cuff of one pant leg, and then the other, and drags them with a soft grunt of effort into the flat.

"Good plan," Killian says, following with the third body. "Shoulda thought of it myself."

"You are a young man," Enzo says, then grunts as he drags the corpses a few more feet. "You cannot know everything to do." Another grunt of effort. "Into the room. Velocemente, the Carabinieri house is not far. Not house—qual è quella cazzo di parola? The—the office for the policemen."

"Station," I hear Killian fill in, grunting in effort. "The police station."

"Sì, sì, grazie."

Their voices fade, and I hear a couple of loud thumps, and then Killian and Enzo return, both panting.

Enzo peers up at the rain. "Rain is good. Wash away this blood, hey? Come-come. My car is not far away."

Killy and I follow Enzo at a distance of a few paces. "This is making me nervous, Killy," I whisper. "The one thing Dad drilled into me a million times is if you're on the run, you can't trust anyone you don't already know and trust."

"He made us pasta, Story."

I laugh sarcastically. "Because no murderer would ever do that."

"I mean…?” Killy shrugs. "Why go through the effort if you're just gonna kill us? That wasn't fuckin' Barilla, either."

Enzo must have sharp hearing because he barks a laugh ahead of us. “Barilla. You insult me, you say this. Barilla—cazzo di merda." He spits on the ground at his feet. "This is Italy. That was my home—well, sort of."

"Did you make the pasta? Like from scratch?" Killian asks.

Enzo chuckles at Killian’s question as he comes to a red Lancia four-door hatchback. "What, you think every Italian makes fresh pasta and sauce every day? We just dance around kitchens like in your movies, singing that pizza pie in your eye song? No, I buy it at the store. But what I can buy at a store here is not at all like what you buy in your store. I have gone to your America, you know. I go to New York with my Papa when I am sedici—six-a-teen? This is the word, sì? Six-a-teen? We go to see the pastas in a store. My Papa, he has a cousin we stay with. The cousin, he laugh when Papa bring home the pasta." Enzo laughs; by now, we're all piled into the car, Enzo behind the wheel, Killian beside him, and me in the back seat. "It was merda. Barilla. Cazzo di merda."

Killian and I exchange looks, and Killian makes a funny "oops" grimace, and we both have to suppress our laughter—clearly, Killian stepped on a nerve with that one.

Enzo pulls away from the curb—well, there isn't actually a curb, just a slight lip where the roadway changes to sidewalk. "Listen to me, you two. I know you do not trust me." He wipes at his nose with his sleeve; his nose is still trickling blood. "You should not. This is smart. But I do not mean you any harm, te lo prometto." He glances at me over his shoulder. "You have the gun. Please do not shoot me, but if it makes you feel better, point it at me." His gaze flicks to my trigger finger, safely outside the guard. "Ah, good. No finger on the—the…grilletto. I am forgetting all my English."

Again, Killian and I exchange looks, and this time we do laugh.

"Hey? What is the joke?" Enzo asks.