"You should tell him," Dante said again. "Go ahead and pass along the message."
Umberto frowned, closing his eyes as he lowered his head. It was only a brief second, but Dante sensed the sadness. He felt it, too, stirring deep inside of him. It was the sensation of the last bit of lingering hope dying a miserable death.
"Get out of here, Dante," Umberto said, stepping up onto the curb, "while you still can."
"I'll go once you give me what you took."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You took the gun when you broke into the apartment. I know you; that's what you do. Never leave a gun behind. I want it back."
Umberto considered that, staring at him again, before stepping over to the car and unlocking it. He reached inside, beneath the passenger seat, and pulled out the small .22 caliber pistol before slowly approaching. "This one?"
"That's the one."
"I'm guessing it's registered to her, huh?"
Dante didn't answer that.
Umberto stalled in front of him, standing toe-to-toe, holding the gun. He raised it, pressing it to Dante's chest, pointing it where his ribcage protected his rapidly beating heart. Even through layers of clothing, Dante could feel the muzzle digging into his scarred skin. "And what's to stop me from pulling the trigger?"
"I don't know," Dante answered, reaching up and snatching ahold of the gun, gripping it tightly. "But if you wanted to shoot me, you already would've."
Umberto let go, letting him have the gun, and started back away. Once he stepped up on the curb, he turned around. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you real soon, Dante."
"I'm sure." Dante watched him stroll back to the house, his steps leisure, and called out, "So what's to stop me from shooting you right now?"
"Integrity," Umberto said. "You'd never shoot a man in the back."
"You sure about that?"
"Absolutely," Umberto said, turning around to face him. "Besides, there are no bullets left in that gun. I've already used them."
Dante waited until Umberto was inside before checking the gun. No bullets. He slipped back into the shadows, concealing the gun in his hoodie pocket as he made his way to his car down the block. Taking a deep breath, he sped from the neighborhood, driving straight back to the apartment.
Gabriella was sprawled out on the couch, watching an episode of some medical drama. She sat up when he opened the door, her eyes wide, on alert. He locked up before strolling over to her, pulling the gun from his pocket and dropping it on the coffee table.
"Where did you…?" she asked as she picked up the gun. "I mean, how did you…?"
She didn't finish those questions. Good thing, too, because Dante didn't want to answer them. He yanked off his hoodie, tossing it on the arm of the couch. "Doesn't matter, but we're not keeping it. There's no telling what it's been used for."
As soon as he said that, she dropped the gun, letting it clatter back to the coffee table. She wiped her hands on her pajama pants, as if whatever figurative blood was now on the gun had somehow transferred to her skin.
Dante headed to the bathroom to shower, standing under the scorching hot spray until he no longer felt the sting, letting it warm his body and wash away the memories of that evening. After he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back out, heading for the bedroom. He made it a few steps before he heard the male voice in the living room. He came to an abrupt stop, his blood running cold at the sound of it, but he was too late to turn back or do anything. The apartment was so damn small he knew he was spotted, especially when the clipped voice asked loudly, "Do you make a habit of walking around my daughter's apartment naked?"
"Daddy!" Gabriella groaned from the kitchen. "He lives here, too, remember?"
"I remember," Alfie said, glaring at Dante as he just stood there, trapped in that void of space between the bathroom and the bedroom, hoping like hell the towel stayed in place as he uncomfortably crossed his arms over his chest. "We're still going to be having a talk about that, young lady."
"I'm twenty-six, you know."
"Talk to me when you're forty-six," he said. "Until then, I don't think it's too much to ask for him to respect you enough to show some restraint. Hell, he at least ought to have enough self-respect