“Thank you for the cookies,” he says quietly. “I’ll make sure Dario gets them.”
He stands. Heads for the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame.
His ass is unfair.
“For what it’s worth,” he says without turning around, “Telling the truth isn’t always worth it. Dario’s not what you’ve been told. Not a cold-blooded killer.”
And then he’s gone.
After he leaves, I lock the door.
I sit alone in my kitchen surrounded by cooling racks and the smell of peanut butter and chocolate, and I think about Dario Marchetti sitting somewhere eating cookies I made him with Enzo.
I think about what else they could do together.
My body’s still buzzing like it expects company. I hate that I’m disappointed.
I need therapy.
Or a mob tag team.
I vote mob tag team.
Chapter Three
STEVIE
I’ve puked twice already.
Once in my own bathroom at 6 AM, once in the courthouse bathroom twenty minutes ago. At this rate, I’ll be hollow by noon.
The nausea isn’t guilt. Or it’s not just guilt. It’s also the fact that in approximately ten minutes I’m going to walk into a courtroom, sit fifteen feet from Dario Marchetti, and try to form coherent sentences while my body begs me to ride him like a stolen bike.
Dario, who sent me chocolates.
Enzo brought them three days ago. Showed up at my door with a box of expensive Italian chocolates and a small card in handwriting I didn’t recognize but somehow knew anyway.
Do what you need to do. I’ll be okay. - D
I stared at that card for twenty minutes. Analyzed the handwriting like it held secrets. The pressure of the pen. The steadiness. Even his letters knew where they were going.
The chocolates were obscene. Dark chocolate with hazelnut crème. Salted caramel that melted on my tongue. One with espresso that tasted like sin.
I ate half the box that night and cried over the other half.
Then I ate the other half at 2 AM while touching myself and thinking about his hands. I came with two chocolates to spare. Aftercare.
What kind of man sends chocolates to the woman about to burn his life down?
What kind of woman gets off to the memory of him saying breathe?
This one, apparently.
“Ms. Reeves?”
The prosecutor, Mr. Harrison, is standing in front of me. Tall, grey suit, the kind of face that says I care right up until it’s inconvenient.
“It’s time,” he says.
