The Woman from the Past (Grassi Framily)

“Oh, ah, right. Sure. Of course. The last wine I bought was from a grocery store. It tasted like someone dropped a couple sour grapes into a bottle of rubbing alcohol,” she admitted.

“Well, we can do better than that I hope,” I said, grabbing a couple glasses and setting them out. “So, Cammie,” I said after handing her a glass. “What are you doing here?”

“You… you have no idea who I am?” I asked.

“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” I said, trying to play it off, wanting to see what she had going on before I decided t get involved not.

“Ah, okay. Well, I, ah, I know who you are,” she admitted, then immediately raised her glass, taking a big gulp of the wine that cost more for a bottle than my entire suit did. Which was saying something since I was wearing designer.

“Massimo Grassi,” I said, nodding. “Owner of this winery,” I added.

“Right. Well, I sort of mean… I know about your other business,” she told me, keeping admirable eye contact for someone who was confronting someone she knew was in the mafia.

“I invest in several other ventures,” I told her since everyone knew that you never owned up to being a member of the “family” even if someone was confronting you with actual proof.

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“Then what did you mean?” I asked, wondering how daring she was going to be.

“Oh, cut the crap,” she said, agitation overtaking the nerves she was clearly dealing with. “We both know you are in the mob.”

“There is no such thing as the mob,” I informed her, because that was always how we were supposed to answer.

“No?” she asked, brows raising. “Then explain Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, John Gotti…”

“Hardworking Italian-Americans who suffered from a smear campaign against them,” I told her, finding the irritated flush that crept up her neck a lot more endearing than I should have.

“So are you going to deny that you are a hitman too?”

“I think you’ve been watching too many action movies, sweetheart.”

“Are you going to deny that you killed my boyfriend?”

Fuck.

There it was.

I swear the impact of her words almost sent me back a step.

Because while, yes, I had done it, and, yes, I knew who she was, she was never supposed to know it was me who had done it, or who I was in general.

Secrecy was the most important aspect of my job. No one could ever know who I was. If they did, I would have to quit. And then where would the Family be?

“I don’t know your boyfriend,” I told her since, technically, I’d never met the guy.

“Didn’t know. Past tense. Because you killed him. Four years ago.”

In my mind, I couldn’t help but flash back. To a rooftop in a bad neighborhood. To top-floor apartment. To a man sitting on a couch with a bullet through his head.

Then the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen rushing out and looking right at me through the window.

“Sweetheart, I don’t—“

“May seventh,” she cut me off. “Kind of hot for May. You were across the street on a rooftop. That building conveniently didn’t have cameras. You can’t deny it. I know it’s you. I’ve been looking into it almost every day for four years. I don’t have any doubt that it was you.”

“And yet you are here, talking to me, instead of pleading your case to the police.”

To that, she snorted.