was most vulnerable. A quick job, in and out, almost as if—”
“Somebody tipped them off.”
“Exactly.”
The ache in my body is replaced with a tight bundle of fury. Nario looks at me for a long time. I stare at the mirror, but I don’t see our reflections. Instead, I see the perpetrator, whoever he is, on his knees with the barrel of my pistol pressed between his eyes. I hear the click of the hammer and then the gunshot. I see his blood spray.
“You know what I’m going to ask you to do,” I say.
“I’ve already started, Carlo,” he replies. “We will find the guilty party. I promise you that.”
“Be subtle,” I tell him. “I don’t want him to see it coming.”
“Of course.” Nario looks around the gym, which, I now realize, is swimming with sweat. The floor is drenched. I must look haggard. “Are you okay? I’ve never known you to workout so late.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just bring me the traitor. I will do the rest.”
5
Hazel
So this is the game that Carlo wants to play. Since I didn’t fall like a fricking fairy-tale princess into his arms when he had me pressed up against the car a few days ago, he’s given his Italian subordinates permission to go back to being assholes. When I walked into the class, I knew something was wrong. They’re in their usual places at the back, two of them with their backs turned, casually playing poker.
I’m honestly so done with giving a crap about them anymore. If they don’t want to learn, fine, as long as they don’t disturb Lucille, Max, and Johnny.
We go through some of our usual exercises and then it’s time for them to deliver their prepared speeches—an assignment from a few weeks ago. I don’t even ask the Italians if they’ve done theirs. It would be pointless. I push down the anger I feel, the urge to find Carlo and slap him across the face. The Italians are laughing, talking, the scrape of their chips—they brought fucking poker chips—across the table seeming impossibly loud.
“Can I go first?” Max asks.
I smile. “Of course.”
I sit at one of the desks as Max takes his place at the front. He’s adorably nervous, looking to Johnny for support, and then he takes a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and straightens it out.
“I want to talk about Lionel Messi, my favorite s-soccer player,” he says. “One of the biggest reason he is good is because he is very good at balance. He never fall over. Like a ballerina—”
One of the Italians barks something loudly. I have no clue what he said but his friends clearly think it’s hilarious. Max’s face goes tight and his brother sits up a little straighter, hand worrying at his pen as though it’s a blade.
“Like a ballerina,” he goes on. “And he is good when there is pressure. He never let crowd get to—”
Another bark in Italian. Another round of laughter.
Johnny pushes his chair back and spins on the Italians. He’s a small man and, though the twins are around twenty-five, he looks like a teenager with his black hair falling across his forehead.
“Shut up your mouths,” he growls. “My brother is speaking.”
Max mutters something in Korean: leave them alone, I’m guessing. Johnny snaps back fluidly: no fucking way.
“What you say, little Chinese man?” The Italian who jumps to his feet is the man with the scar under his lip. Mr. Well-Behaved last session. He looks like a hyena now, gaunt and spoiling for a fight. “Sit down, little Chinese man. I eat you like a cracker.”
I just sit, dumbfounded, paralyzed by how surreal this is. I know I should do something, intervene—I’m the authority figure in here, right?— but I can’t move. This doesn’t feel like real life.
Johnny flinches, clearly scared, but he stands his ground. “Brother speaking; you shut up!” he yells. He hisses a long string of Korean.
I finally snap from my daze. I run into the middle of the class and hold up my hands like a referee. “Enough!” I shout. “You.” I point to the Italian. “Sit down and be quiet while Max is presenting. And you, Johnny, sit down. I will have no fighting in my classroom. Do you understand?”
“He sit first,” Johnny grumbles, fingering his pen.
I turn to the Italian. There must be something fierce in my eyes. I feel some of my family’s craziness coming out. I feel like punching him.