9. Tony

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Today? You have books, magazines, and TV.” He washed his coffee mug and placed it in the drainer. I liked that he was house-proud, or perhaps he needed to keep his hands busy.

“It doesn’t connect to wifi.” I shoved my legs out in front and crossed my ankles, wishing I could go to the gym or jog.

He side-eyed me. “You’re good at snooping.”

“Oh, really? Then how come I got caught?” I folded my arms, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Okay. You’re a shit snooper.”

“Thanks. Does that label come with a prize? Or a medal?” If we’d been an alpha and omega who’d met in a bar and struck up a conversation, I would have enjoyed our bantering.

He closed his eyes, and I could almost see him counting to ten before he opened them again. Perhaps my attitude and sass was too much and I was pushing him too far.

“Are you always like this?” He wiped his hands on the dish towel.

“Like what?” I genuinely wanted to know. It might be the last home truth before my life ended.

“Cocky. Your future’s uncertain and yet?—”

“Uncertain? You said uncertain.” I hung on that one word. “I thought it was guaranteed.”

He bit down on his lower lip, his eyes darting from left to right. I’d caught him out. He was having doubts about offing me. And that was a thumbs-up from me. But why? What had I done to deserve a reprieve?

“It’s just a word. It means nothing,” he spluttered.

“Sure means a lot to me. Last night my life hung in the balance, and now you’re dithering.”

“You are a smartass, but you’re wrong. And I do not dither.”

Oops. That word got him worked up and an image of him in bed, naked, popped into my head. I bet he didn’t dither between the sheets. I fanned myself with one hand, not that it had any effect.

“Okay, are you going to interrogate me? Pull out my nails one by agonizing one until I blurt out all my secrets?”

His nostrils flared and his scent sharpened. “I do not yank out anyone’s nails. That’s old-school.”

“You get Emilio or one of your other henchmen to do it for you.” I took a look at my nails. They were bitten to the quick, a contrast to his pampered ones.

He clenched his fists. I was getting under Mr. Tough Guy’s skin. Again.

“I’m honoring your request to find out what happened to your father.” He shoved one hand in his pocket but didn’t reach for his gun as he’d done countless times last night.

“I have another one.”

“That’s not how it works. One last request, not an ongoing list.”

My shoulders slumped. He said “last request.” That was pretty final. “I’d like to tell my dad how Antonio died.” While he’d never wanted to discuss it with me because it was too painful, it would answer a question he’d probably been asking himself all these years.

“No.” He folded his arms, almost as if he expected me to toss another question at him. And I was.

“Why not?”

He dragged a stool in front of the armchair and plonked his butt on it. “That part of your life is over, Tony. The person you were before you went into Arnie’s office no longer exists.”

My lips trembled, and there was a sinking feeling in my tummy. He didn’t put into words, “I can’t let you leave,” but he may as well have.

“Is being in this basement the mafia version of witness protection?” Except I had a life before this, and now it was much smaller, confined to these four walls.

“Not exactly.”

For a high-profile mobster, he had a hard time making decisions, at least about me.

“I do want to probe you—ummm, no, I mean...” He tripped over his words. “Probe what’s in that head of yours.”

If he wasn’t who he was, I’d pull my pants down and yell, “Probe me, please!” What was it about him that fascinated me? Not just his cologne that tormented me, surely, or how he constantly tugged at his ear. My body urged me to run toward him, when he represented everything I loathed.

“I’m an open book, though I can’t say the same about you. Or is that what they tell you in the mobster’s handbook.” I put a hand to my head in the manner of a fortune teller. “I can see it now. It says you have to be mysterious and opaque.”

He got up, sporting an exasperated expression.

“Don’t suppose you have a gym in this mansion of yours.”

“I’m not giving you the run of my house.”

“You could stay while I lift weights and run on the treadmill. But I warn you, I get a tad sweaty, and I grunt and curse a lot when I exercise.”

For a guy who might still kill me and who I should be putting as much distance as possible between us, there was something pulling me to him. Almost as if we were joined by an invisible thread and he was winding it up and reeling me closer.

His face kind of warped. Perhaps squirrely was the best word to describe it. Judging by his physique, he worked out, and he definitely had a gym in this monstrosity of a house. So why was he weirded out by the mention of sweat and grunting?

Something tweaked in my head, but I poo-pooed the idea. He was a gangster, a man who put his gun to people’s temples and pulled the trigger, leaving Emilio to clean up the mess. But the notion popped back into my mind and wouldn’t leave.

He wasn’t weirded out, or not in the way I imagined. It was him picturing me in sweats or maybe just shorts, bare-chested, my body glistening with sweat while I puffed and panted. Was that why I was here? He wanted to do things with me or to me before he pulled the plug?

I got up and pushed past him, my body trembling, a million thoughts tumbling into my head. Tightening the tie at my waist, I wrapped my arms around my body.

“You’re right. It’s time for you to go. Wouldn’t want you to lose money by being stuck in the basement with me. Or worse, miss an execution.” I kept my tone even, but there was a brittle quality to my voice.

I sensed his hackles rising but refused to glance at him, and I strode toward the bedroom, realizing my mistake when I reached the doorway and detoured toward the kitchen and gripped the sink. The cold metal under my fingernails was welcome as heat and fury rose within me.

“Get out!” I leaned over the sink, hoping I wasn’t going to be sick.

“This is my house and my goddam basement. You can’t throw me out of my own home.”

There was that steel in his voice, the one that had me wanting to shrink away. But at the same time, I wanted to place my hand over his heart. But that was ridiculous. Why would I want to touch him and have his flesh beneath mine? Nope. The urge to feel his heartbeat was to reassure myself he had a heart!

I twisted around, the metal pressing on my lower back. “You don’t live down here. This is for your prisoners.” I picked up the dish towel. “How many people used this before you unalived them?”

“Unalived?” He scoffed at the word. “That’s not a real word.”

“It’s a social media thing.”

“This is real life, Tony, not fools posting cat memes.” He pushed hair back from his brow.

“Stop skirting the subject. How many?”

“You!” His voice was filled with venom as he pointed at me, his eyes blazing. “You don’t get to ask the dammed fucking questions.” He poked his chest with one finger so hard, it had to have hurt. “I do. Me. Flint, the boss of La Luna Noir and the Alpha.”

Putting my hands on my hips, I met his fire with my own. “You can do better than that. You have to end with a foot stamp and a ‘So there!’” I flung up my arms doing my best imitation of a flamingo dancer, my chin held high.

“You are the most infuriating person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting!” He was at screech level 10 or maybe 20. It was hard to measure.

“You’re complaining because I refuse to bow down and kiss your feet? F you and your alpha garbage. This is the twenty-first century. Those traditional role models got left behind in the last century.”

He reacted to what I’d said, not by tossing a vase at my head or aiming his gun at me. He didn’t throw me over his shoulder and ravish me. It was as though his anger had been popped with a pin, like a balloon. He sagged like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Not in our wider community,” he said in a small voice.

“And yet you still keep to the rules or you wouldn’t have used the word ‘alpha’ against me.”

“Change is slow or almost non-existent in the mafia. It’s the way it is and probably always will be.”

I shut up, his defeated tone showing the weight he carried. “You’d better go. These thick walls must have blocked a lot of messages. Can’t have your underlings waiting before they break the law.”

He hissed and moved to the bottom of the stairwell. I shouted, “Lights on,” in a gravelly voice, mimicking his. They flicked on, and his stunned face, mouth gaping and eyes widened, turned toward me.

“How’d you do that? It responds to my voice, no one else’s.”

I shrugged. “Pure luck.”