man who checks three times that the stove isn’t on before he leaves his house.
“Go on.”
“I had our lieutenants’ cars swept for bugs, just on the off chance.”
“And Durante’s and the Albino’s were bugged, but Santo’s was not,” I guess.
Nario grimaces, his scar twitching. “Exactly.”
“Which means Santo is our traitor. The man who arranged for that shipment to be hit. Which means all this kill-the-Irish shit has been for show.”
“Exactly.”
I nod. “You know what to do.”
Redheaded slut replays on a loop in my mind. My hand is a tight fist against my thigh.
“Did you check that other thing?” I ask.
Nario sighs. “I did, but it’s strange. I couldn’t find out anything about her, Carlo. Hazel Conway is a mystery.”
“Keep looking.”
He looks at me like maybe I don’t have my priorities straight, but has the sense not to press the issue. After he leaves, I pour myself a whiskey, thinking of Hazel, Santo, and Nario’s words.
“Hazel Conway is a mystery,” I whisper aloud, taking a slug of my drink.
No truer words were ever spoken.
The day has been long. By the time my driver drops me outside the mansion, I’m looking forward to working my body over in the gym and then having a late-night whiskey. I head through the mansion toward the rear kitchen where I keep my protein shakes and my pre-workouts.
I pause outside the door when I hear their voices, for a second wondering if I fell asleep in the car and I’m dreaming. This is too surreal. Mother’s accent is deeply Italian, and her laugh is carefree and high, despite everything that’s happened to her. Hazel is ranting about something.
I get closer. Staying in the shadows, I peek around the door and watch and listen.
“It’s the ceremony of it, Alda!” Hazel giggles.
They’re standing over a pot of boiling pasta. Hazel is wearing those tight running leggings that make me want to bite on my fist until I break bone.
“Oh, do tell,” Mother chuckles. She’s wearing her purple silk veil, shielding her face from the world. It pains me to see that veil. She only wears it when there’s company.
“When you salt the pasta, you’re sending a message to your brain. Like, it’s go-time. Get ready. The game is on.”
Mother laughs. I find myself smiling. They talk for a frankly absurdly long time about the right way to strain pasta, and then the right way to make the sauce, and on and on. And I just stand there—a shadow, like Hazel says—watching.
“Alda,” Hazel asks as they are setting plates. “If you don’t mind me asking …”
“The veil, dear?” Mother says softly.
Hazel nods, biting her lip as she turns to select some coriander for garnishing.
“A long time ago, I was involved in an … attack,” Mother answers, surprising me. She usually doesn’t talk about that day. “I was the belle of this town, once upon a time. ‘The Italian Beauty,’ they called me, if you can believe that. I had more than my fair share of suitors before I settled down. But then … well, life happens, dear, and I would not punish you by forcing you to look at my face.”
“Alda!” Hazel says. “I’ve only known you for an afternoon, and I can already tell you’re a beautiful woman.”
I tighten my hands, knowing the compliment will make Mother happy.
“How are you and Carlo getting along?” Mother asks, changing the subject.
Hazel scoffs. Her knife slams against the wooden cutting board. “Not to be rude, but your employer sure does know how to play the asshole, doesn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever met a more infuriating man.”
Mother laughs, covering her mouth in that way she does. “Employer? He’s my son, dear. I don’t work for him.”
Hazel’s jaw drops. Her cheeks turn beautifully red.
“But you are not wrong,” Mother goes on. “He really does know how to play the asshole.” She turns at looks at me, then, and I wonder how long she’s known I’m here.
“But he’s been hurt in the past, dear. I think he likes you more than he’s letting on.”
I back away and disappear into the depths of the house, shaking my head fiercely.
I had to take her.
I had to protect her.
But that doesn’t mean I have feelings for her. I won’t allow myself to have feelings for her, or for any woman.
I walk through the mansion into my bedroom, standing before the full-length mirror as I strip to the waist. The white, jagged scar runs from the nape of my neck down to my belly. It is