Page 18 of Devil's Thirst
I fight back a laugh, not wanting to truly piss him off. “Give me the latest rundown on the Irish relationship with the cops. They have a falling out?” I asked Tommy to do some recon on the local crime climate when I decided to come back. We had a basic idea of the atmosphere from Lazaro, who always keeps up with the goings-on in New York even though it’s an ocean away. In his words, trouble can come from anywhere. But if we were going to be on these streets, I wanted details.
“The Irish and the cops are as strong as ever. Aside from being related to half the force, the Irish handpicked the current commissioner years ago.”
Interesting. So Amelie probably wasn’t steering clear of the cops for that reason. I cross it off my mental list of possibilities.
“Why do you ask?”
“Amelie was pretty adamant against filing a report with the cops, and I was trying to suss out why.”
“Why the hell would you try to get her to report me?”
“I wasn’t trying so much as curious why she didn’t. Not like it would have mattered if she did. She has zero information to give them.”
“That could be the answer to your question, then. Or it could have something to do with the botched investigation when she went missing. Maybe she simply doesn’t trust them.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Renzo told me back when they found her that the hospital filed an assault report for a Jane Doe amnesiac, but it was never cross-checked with missing persons. Amelie’s sister had to do the legwork to hunt down Amelie herself.”
“Just because she had a shit investigator then doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.” I don’t like decisions based on fear or other emotions. I find it beyond frustrating to watch people rationalize bad decisions because it makes themfeelbetter. That shit comes back to bite you every time.
“You’re arguing your point to the wrong person,” Tommy says flatly.
“You’re right.” I sigh. “Thanks for the info. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
“You do realize that’s a broad fucking statement, considering who you’re talking to.”
I huff out a laugh. “Good. I’d hate for you to get bored.”
Tommy grunts before the line goes dead. I toss my phone on the kitchen counter and open a bottle of Masseto Merlot. That was another thing I learned from Uncle Lazaro—appreciation for a fine wine. He’d have a few choice words if he saw that I wasn’t using a proper decanter or aerating. The mental image of his tirade brings a small smile to my lips as I take that first sip. This is exactly what I need after executing today’s production.
Looks like Amelie isn’t the only one interested in theater.
I sit on the sofa facing the TV, but I don’t watch the TV. I watch the wall because that’s the wall this apartment shares with Amelie’s. As I stare at the cream-colored wall texture, I envision her place and what she might be doing. Did she wash my writing off her arm yet? Or is she reluctant to see it fade along with the memory of my skin touching hers?
She was so entranced watching my every movement that I’m not sure she realized her entire body shivered from my touch. So fucking responsive. And when she was giving me attitude, pressing her haughty finger into my chest, a simple touch from me instantly melted her hard edges. I’ve never felt such overwhelming satisfaction over something so simple.
A full gambit of emotions pummeled me during those few short minutes, especially when I thought she’d recognized me for a split second. I was certain I hadn’t wanted her to remember me, yet when I realized what I took for recognition was a misunderstanding, I couldn’t deny the stabbing disappointment.
Even now, I want to go next door and show her exactly who I am and how she’s owned me since the minute we met. Four years of frustration and longing—clambering to the surface, threatening a total loss of control. The urge is maddening, seething under my skin.
That was why I had to walk away.
If I had followed her into that apartment, I wasn’t sure what I’d have done or might have said. That sort of emotional instability is unacceptable. It leads to unintended consequences, and this campaign I’m conducting is nothing if not calculated. I willnotfuck it up by losing my cool.
My phone vibrates with a call on the kitchen counter. It’s Lazaro. I answer in Italian because that’s the only language we use between us. He speaks English, but made it clear from the beginning that I was responsible for learning his language if I wanted to survive in his territory.
It’s amazing how quickly someone can learn a language when properly motivated.
“Sante, it’s been weeks, and I’ve heard nothing from you. You forget your uncle Lazaro so quickly?”
“Forgive me, Uncle. I meant no disrespect. I simply had no news to share,” I assure him. He’s not genuinely hurt—his comment is more of a reminder. We share blood relations, but our family businesses are not one and the same. I’m straddling the line between two worlds. He’s granted me the permission to do so for now, but that won’t last forever.
“Nothing? You can’t tell me you haven’t at least paid respects to your cousin Donati—he’ll be your boss if you stay there.”
“I didn’t see any point in announcing myself if there was a chance I wasn’t sticking around.”
Lazaro makes a tsking sound. “I taught you better than to lie to yourself. You can’t stop others from lying to you, but if you lie to yourself—”