Page 14 of Revenge on the Mafia

Annoyance brewed in my insides for each item she listed. Why hadn’t she told me he was going to be home early?

She was out of breath when she hung up. She glanced my way before she fell into another explanation. “Signor Martello has come home unexpectedly early. The house is a mess and—”

“You said he was in Sicily.” The accusation flew out of me.

Her neutral glance turned into a frown. “Allora, what’re you angry about?”

“I’m not.” I forced my facial muscles to relax. “I just wanted to get used to the house before he sees me at work,” I finished lamely.

She dismissed my worries with a wave of her hand. “He won’t even notice you.” There was an odd expression on her face when she said it.

Is he blind? I hoped so. Easier to kill the monstruo.

“She’s right. He’s the silent type.” Isidora stepped into the kitchen behind me.

I already knew that. The silent monster.

Magda turned to us with her hands on her hips. “He has better things to do than notice if the house is cleaned.”

Bet he was too busy murdering fathers in front of their daughters.

“Absolutely,” Isidora agreed enthusiastically behind me.

“Go now. I want the downstairs looking spick and span.”

I followed Isidora in the general direction of the living room. She was five years younger than me and pretty. Short cropped hair, a boyish body, and a friendly glint in her eyes.

“She’s a neat freak, but she’s super sweet.”

Would she know his allergies, though?

I followed behind her, trying to gauge the floor plan. She stopped and opened a door. It was one of the storerooms. “Here.” She gave me a duster and cleaning cloths, then pulled out a bucket and mop for her. “I have worked here for three weeks, and this has to be the easiest job I’ve ever had.” She pulled out the cleaning products and piled them in another bucket. “Nico is rarely home, and when he is, he keeps to himself.”

“Nico?”

She gave me a look that asked how much of a dumbwit I was.

“Niccolò Martello? The man who owns this house and therefore owns you?”

I’d die before I called him anything but a murderer. Least of all by a shortened first name.

Sometimes it had felt as though it would have been easier to pull all of Alfonso’s teeth out than to get any information from him. Every conversation I had with him ground to a stop when he asked me to reconsider dating his son Joel again. As if I would ever get back together with the boy who abandoned me the day my father died. After I’d got New York and Niccolò Martello’s name out of him, I had dropped Alfonso altogether. His son, I dropped a long time ago.

“Are you coming or what?” Isidora stood outside the storeroom with two buckets in either hand and a mop under her armpit.

“Sorry.” I walked out and closed the door behind me.

“Why’re you limping?” She was looking at my right foot.

With the indoor sneakers, the bruise wasn’t visible. I’d worn higher socks to hide it. “Knocked against something.” I went back to our previous topic. “Shouldn’t we call him Signor Martello?”

“We should.” She gave me a deliciously evil giggle. “But have you seen him?”

Yes. Faintly. Dark shadows and a tall figure. So, “no.”

“You’ll understand when you see him. I call him Nico when no one’s around.” She sighed as if she were thinking of a private thought. “He’s so hot. Quiet but hot. Cold but hot.”

I shook my head. The girl had a crush. If only she knew his true nature. Asesino. Or maybe puto gilipollas might be a name better suited for him because he was a fucking asshole.