“Really?” I lift my hand, snapping my fingers.
A whooshing sound pierces the air. The two bodyguards hit the ground with a loud thump.
Another bullet hits my uncle’s cup on the table, and it explodes into minuscule fragments, coffee splashing his shocked face and soaking the newspaper.
“Words are the only thing you were ever good at.” I rise and straighten my jacket. “Keep your men away from my territory. This is my last warning.”
I can feel Calogero’s eyes on my back as I tread through the bleak taverna and step out onto the street. Men with boxes full of fish or vegetables under their arms hurry down the cobblestone road, either none the wiser about what happened just moments ago or, more likely, not even giving a shit about it. I will never understand why my godfather keeps frequenting this dump. Probably because it was where Don Mancuso conducted his business, and Calogero has always been a man of tradition.
Glancing at the second-story window across the way where another one of my men is holding position, I give him the nod and head toward the next street, to the outdoor market. It’s a roundabout route to where I parked my car, but I feel nostalgic.
When I was little, my father often brought me with him when he came to Palermo. As a soldier for Mancuso, he regularly reported to the don, and I spent hours running around the market—playing and often stealing fruit here and there—while Dad was holed up at that taverna. I would often slip a fig into my pocket when the seller wasn’t paying attention. An orange, if my hoodie was baggy enough to hide it. A cluster of white grapes that I then picked and ate while strolling between the stands. It’s not that we couldn’t afford the delicious treats. Being in charge of overseeing the collection of debts for the don, my father earned well. But I still stole whenever I could. It was a game for me.
I pause at the edge of the market, next to a stand with wicker baskets full of ripe red cherries. My eyes drift over the crowd of locals busying around—picking out produce, laughing. If I wanted to, I could buy this whole place. Every single thing that’s on display, along with the people. Too bad it wouldn’t bring even a speck of the excitement slipping that one little fig into my pocket elicited.
Turning away from the colorful stall, I put on my sunglasses and head through the market. I can feel everyone’s stares, but each contact lasts only a fraction of a moment before their eyes quickly dart elsewhere, and each person in my way zips from my path.
I’m used to their reaction. Even with shades partially obscuring my face, most of the damage is clearly visible.
Some of the things that happened after the blast on my last job for Dushku remain hazy. I recall coming to in an ambulance. Jemin was next to me, his gun pointed at the paramedic. Grabbing me under my arms, he basically dragged me out of the emergency vehicle and stuffed my ass into the back of his car. Then, I must have passed out again. During the drive, I regained consciousness a couple of times. The pain was excruciating. By the time we arrived at the rundown house in the suburbs, I was mostly checked out.
Jemin hollered and had two guys carry me inside a garage and deposit me on a workbench where a ‘doctor’ spent hours stitching me back together. I lived, despite the less-than-sterile conditions, miraculously avoiding any of my wounds getting infected. The final result, however, was a mess of badly patched muscles and warped skin.
It’s no wonder people can’t handle looking at me now. Their hushed murmurs mix with the cries of excited vendors. It’s a cacophony of contradiction. One I’m well and truly used to.
I pull out my phone and dial Onofredo, the head of security at my house.
“Boss?”
“How many times?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“How many times since this morning has our little guest tried to escape?”
“She hasn’t.”
I halt. “What has she been doing then?”
“Snooping. She went through the desk drawers and cabinets in your office. Even checked under the recliner cushion. Oh, and she found your safe and spent nearly half an hour trying to crack the combination.”
I feel the corners of my lips tilt upward. “And then?”
“She’s been reorganizing your bookshelves.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She pulled off every book, lined them up on the floor, and then started putting them back on the shelves in a different order. Otto checked on her fifteen minutes ago. She was still at it.”
“And you’re positive she didn’t try to slip away?”
“Absolutely.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Alright. Keep me posted.”
The crowd continues to part before me like the Red Sea as I meander between the stands. As usual, sellers are yelling, offering their goods, beckoning passersby to approach. A young woman to my left holds a wooden board laden with small pieces of cut cheese and cured meats, inviting customers to taste the samples.
“Signore?” she calls after me. “Vuole provare del prosciutto?”
I stop and glance over my shoulder. The girl is lifting the platter toward me, a flirtatious grin dancing across her lips. As soon as she eyes my face, though, she tenses. Her smile disappears, and she quickly looks away. Typical.
Continuing my stroll through the market, my mind turns to my beautiful hostage and how cute she looked wearing my shirt. Before I left this morning, I ordered the maid to throw Vasilisa’s clothes into the trash. I told myself it was punishment for her nerve to fuck with my life, but in truth, I simply enjoyed the primal possessiveness that overcame me when I saw her in my clothes. I wanted her implicitly marked as mine. I’ve never felt anything even remotely similar toward another woman before. With over a dozen men guarding the grounds of my property, even though she might not see them—as ordered—it doesn’t mean they won’t see her. And having my feisty princess dressed in my shirt is a big enough sign that she’s off-limits.
As I’m approaching the end of the market, my eyes fall on a stand with an assortment of local fruit. Peaches, nespole, and strawberries grace the wicker baskets in front of the seller who’s dealing with a customer. Off in the corner, there is a small bowl with a few green figs in it. I didn’t think they were yet in season. I hasten my step and adjust my route so I pass right next to the counter. And slip one of the figs into my pocket.
I place the last book, Émile Zola’s Nana, on the lowest shelf and take a few steps back, observing my work. This morning, I removed all the books and sorted them by color. It took almost four hours. Most of the afternoon, I spent poking around the villa devoid of another living soul. Then, I came back into Rafael’s office and reorganized the books again, in alphabetical order by author’s name this time.
Reorganizing things is something I do when I’m stressed. It gives me a sense of control, even if it’s over something mundane and meaningless. And currently, nothing in my life feels like it’s within my control.
Last night, I barely slept a wink. I spent nearly all of it sitting on the huge bed, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a knife I swiped from the kitchen. Just in case the scumbag got the idea to blackmail me into having sex with him, as well. Only once dawn started breaking did I allow myself to succumb to a couple of hours of restless sleep. I woke up feeling like a wreck, and now I’m even worse off after moving all those tomes around. Twice.
There was no useful information whatsoever in the papers I found on Rafael’s desk. I came across something that looked like a lease to a warehouse in the name of the company I hacked—Delta Security—which I assume is his, but the contract was signed by someone else. Printouts of specifications for some sort of surveillance equipment. And a few random receipts for things I couldn’t decipher since they were in Italian.
But I did discover a safe that spiked my hopes behind one of the paintings. I couldn’t open it, though.
I still know practically nothing about the man who is holding me hostage. Nothing, except his name. And that he likes to read. A lot, based on the volume of books in here. Over nine hundred in total.
