Page 12 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“Oh, is that for Costa?” I asked, proud of how light and breezy my tone sounded.

“Ah, yeah, Costa,” he said, checking his phone.

“I’ll take it up.”

“I’m supposed to leave it at the door.”

Gavino, I knew from my research, lived on a high floor.

I winced at the delivery driver. “I mean, you can. But the elevator is out.” His face fell at that. “I know. That kind of thing should be on the app. I don’t mind bringing it up, really. He’s 18D.”

That seemed to serve to both remind him how many steps we were talking about… and that I knew who the actual recipient was.

He handed over the food.

“Did he tip you on the app?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Thanks!”

“Thank you,” he said, glancing back up at the newer luxury high-rise.

Once I was sure he was gone, I jabbed my finger into Gavino’s intercom, waited to be let in, then dipped into the elevator.

Where I went ahead and treated myself to a little panic attack.

It wasn’t even a mild one, either. I leaned back against the wall, gasping for breath, my hand pressed to the heart that seemed determined to pound its way right out of my chest.

Sweat wet the back of my shirt and hairline under the cap.

My vision went all jumpy.

Then flashed in and out as I tried to force more air through my nose and into my lungs.

I wasn’t sure how long it went on, but by the time it finally receded a little, I felt shaky and cold.

But the door opened again, and I found myself reaching for my gun, walking out into the hallway, making my way to the door.

Where I hyperventilated for another couple of minutes before, finally, lifting my hand to knock.

When he didn’t immediately come, I knocked again.

But some noise had me looking over my shoulder, sure that, I don’t know, the cops were going to come running to grab the suspicious person in the hallway. Or, worse yet, his mafia friends were going to grab me, drag me to some dungeon somewhere, and torture me before finally putting me out of my misery.

But then the door was open.

And there was Gavino Costa.

Who was nothing like what I expected.

He was younger, first and foremost.

Maybe in his mid-thirties.

And he looked nothing like my understanding of a mafia guy. Though to be fair, my idea of a mafia member was from TV shows from the nineties. So, you know, stocky guys with bad combovers, big chains, bulky rings, and ugly bowling shirts or polos.

Gavino Costa was tall and fit and dressed in black jeans, a white tee that looked expensive and soft from use. There was no jewelry to be seen.