I’m surprised he’s still asleep. Mateo’s a notoriously light sleeper—look at him and he’ll wake up. Must be the alcohol.
Figuring I may as well get down to it, I inhale and push out a sigh so loud, I’m surprised I don’t wake Beth.
Mateo’s eyes open, and it only takes him a second to register a presence in the room. He pushes up, reaches for the nightstand.
“It’s me,” I say quietly.
He stops. Stares at me, then at the gun in my lap. Back to my face, a look of betrayal quickly moving in place of his alarm.
“Rick’s dead,” I tell him.
Something like relief flickers across his features as he mistakenly concludes that’s why I brought the gun, that I didn’t come here to hurt him, after all. He leans back, sighing and staring up at the ceiling. “Goddamn it, Adrian,” he says, lowly. “I talked to him. He wasn’t going to touch her again.”
“Not good enough,” I explain.
“Well, thank you for that. I needed him.”
“He’s an asshole, you didn’t need him. Guys like him are easy to find. You need someone better.”
“You volunteering?” he asks, pushing up to look at me.
I shake my head no, looking down at the gun again, then back at him. “I didn’t come here tonight to join your crew.”
He holds my gaze, doubtful, but wanting to believe the best of me. “Then why’d you come?”
“Baryshnikov sent me.”
His face falls. “The Russians? They don’t even have a foothold in this city.”
I merely shrug. I’m not here to explain. I don’t expect to leave. Just figured I’d tell him.
Scoffing, shaking his head a little at the absurdity, he says, “You won’t work for me, but you’ll work for Baryshnikov.”
“He knew I had an in with you. Offered me a lot of money.”
“To kill me,” Mateo states, this time coldly.
“Yes.”
“So what are you fucking waiting for?” he asks.
It’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself since I managed to get in his room without waking him up. If I wanted to go through with it, I gave up my window of opportunity.
Instead of committing one way or another, I ask the question that’s been weighing on me since dinner. “You fucking your maid?”
“What?” He pulls a face of disgust, like he can’t believe I’d even ask. “No.”
“Good. Don’t.” Nodding to the nightstand beside his bed, I tell him, “I wrote down the address where you can find Baryshnikov. His operation’s small right now, you have more than enough clout to get rid of him.”
Scowling, his gaze mistrustful, Mateo asks, “Why are you telling me this?”
“I know you have to kill me now,” I say, reasonably.
He looks over at Beth, sleeping in the bed next to him. Then at the door to the adjoining bedroom, where their baby daughter sleeps. Finally, his gaze moves back to me.
Tiredly passing a hand over his face, he hauls himself out of bed. He crosses in front of me, clearly unafraid, and grabs a pair of jogging pants.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Adrian?” he asks, irritably, as if I’ve inconvenienced him by showing up but not finishing the job. I guess I have.
Once he’s dressed, I follow him out of the bedroom. I guess it’s not much of a loss, my life. His father stole my family, my face—half my fucking body is a mess, and that’s not even taking into account the shape my insides are in. Matt Morelli stole what I had, and I haven’t built much since. Nobody will miss me when I’m gone.
I’m surprised when he opens the door and leads me down to the basement. The wine cellar’s the only part I’ve ever known him to go to, and that’s nowhere near this part.
The basement is where his dad used to keep his mom when she pissed him off, so Mateo’s never liked coming down here.
Dread courses through me when we stop outside the cell. Nestled beneath the beautiful Morelli homestead like a true dungeon is a small, self-contained prison. There’s no guard, just a dirty cement slab with metal bars and an exposed toilet in the corner, like a jail cell. It’s open, since there’s no one inside, but Mateo grabs the key from a hook against the dirty wall.
Holding out his hand for my gun, he says, “Come on.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I have to figure out what to do with you.”
I sigh, my head lolling back. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want the dog and pony show. He has to kill me now—he should just do it. I’m not interested in the trial, in stalling for more time. Let’s just do what has to be done. But since I’m maybe the only person alive who Mateo considers a real friend, he doesn’t want to kill me. Maybe it’ll take him a few days to realize he has no choice. I’ll let him try to figure a way around it first. He won’t, but I’ll let him try. I hand him my gun and step inside the cell.