Page 21 of Corso DeLuca

“Really? ‘Cause hear this loud and clear, princess. I don’t want to be saved. That’s for the poor suckers who tremble with fear when they see me, the reaper coming. I am a killer. When it’s my time, I will die the killer’s way—the thunder of wrath in my roar, the power of vengeance flowing through my veins, and a pile of dead motherfuckers laying at my feet. Now, do you want to be fucked by me?”

When she says nothing, I have my answer.

“Didn’t think so,” I mutter, handing her lounge bottoms. “Get dressed.”

Jessie can never say I didn’t spell out to her who I am and what I’ll take from her.

EIGHT

Jessie

I’m an asshole.

With a stoicism I haven’t witnessed since our first encounter, Corso tucked me into his bed, pulling the covers up to my neck. The sheets smell of him. It’s impossible not to mushroom cloud myself in their softness, wishing he’d cradle me to his chest.

Why did I open my mouth? Am I guilty of his accusations? Have I created a lie, painting him as a reformed bad guy to justify my craving for him? Or worse, do I want him to lie to me because I won’t accept him as he is?

Lying awake studying the ceiling, I listen to his gentle snore across the room. Stretched out on the divan, his long legs hang off the edge. Exhaustion claimed him the second his head touched the jacquard pillow. When he didn’t crawl into bed beside me, I forced myself to stay quiet. Distance isn’t what I want, but maybe, it’s best. Putting the brakes on us before I lose sight of why I came for Corso… not to him. I’m a good agent, and a lousy girlfriend, play toy… whatever. I should work to my strengths, which is solving this case.

His back is to me, so it’s now or never to find more answers to a mounting list of troublesome questions. Like, if Greg knew he was in danger, what else did he share with Corso that could lead to solving the Esposito case? And why choose Corso?

Tossing off the blanket, I eased my bare feet from his bed onto the faux fur rug to start my search. After dinner, our sleep arrangements started another argument. He’s locked us in. In his men’s valet I find a small paper clip.

I pick the lock.

If this had been my 1963 DC row house, the creaky floorboards would have given my undercover mission away. I hadn’t paid attention when we took the elevator to his apartment, but I am now. The living room is unnaturally lit with a pale blue light. Like that old color tube television at your great grandmother’s house that signed off the air after the eleven o’clock evening news. There’s a poltergeist’s wavy static to all the windows.

Tiptoeing over to the windows, I run my fingers above and below the frame in search of a latch release. There’s nothing… wait, I hit a button, and the eerie light vanishes. What the? I depress the button again and step back. The image of a window appears, the twilight of stars and a half moon’s glow fill the room. Standing back, I look at the four televisions screens masquerading as windows.

“Corso DeLuca, you mad genius,” I rasp. He has us in some doomsday windowless bunker within his hotel. Ugh, I swing at an invisible opponent who keeps besting me, imagining it’s Corso’s face. How dare he seal me away in his safe house? It’s swoon stinking sweet, my heart softens even more towards him.

No badge.

No gun.

No cellphone.

No way out.

He knew once he had me inside I Governor, that it would be impossible to follow through on the threat of putting him behind bars. I smile at the man’s quiet brilliance. “Crafty devil.”

A sound startles me. Quickly, I press my back against the wall. Straight ahead is a half-open door. Ducking to pad inside, pausing to listen. Nothing.

It’s an office. A tendril of excitement twists down my spine. Rich people always hide important stuff in offices of mahogany bookcases and claw foot desks large enough to spin a cartwheel. The desk is Italian maple and impressive in size and detail, much like the owner. I tug the center drawer. My injured limb screams in pain for my efforts. There’re two smaller drawers stacked one below the other.

Bingo.

Soundless gliders release with minimal exertion on my part.

My breath hitches. Inside, there’s the picture of me in the red heels atop of a letter envelope addressed to the sleeping giant in the bedroom. I recognize Greg’s handwriting. Why would he give Corso a picture of me? Here was yet another surprise about the man who had kissed me breathless. Shelve this under another good thing about the mafioso. He’d told me the truth about appreciating my looks.

Quickly pushing the picture aside. I grab the letter, stuffing it in the elastic waistband of my loungers. I tamp down the hurt that Greg has trusted Corso DeLuca with his secrets. Relationships have always been my weakness. Rather, I’ve always been a weak link in relationships, but with Greg, I tried. Don’t do this now, I tell myself.

Exhaling, I release the toxic energy. “Create your calm,” that’s something Josie would say. We were different in more than size and appeal. She wanted more than our small life. Josie loved reading rags to riches stories, spending her allowance on lottery tickets, studying the tax returns of Mom’s wealthier clients. Dreaming of ways to expand the business and move us out of southeast DC became her purpose. Mom always laughed it off. I did too, until that fire. Then I wished we’d listened to Josie and gotten out of there.

Focus, Jessie.

Back in the drawer, I uncover more treasures. There’s a photo book and a lady’s brooch, heavy, most likely vintage if the floral detail and diamonds are real. Pearls, different sizes, and colors circle a capital letter A. There’s a fragile quality to the piece, strong, yet delicate. I envision a family heirloom passed from mother to daughter, a something-old, something borrowed tradition given to the bride on her wedding day. Hesitantly, I brush my fingers across the textured surface, careful not to disturb the setting.