Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

I know a lot of what’s in the files, but I haven’t read or listened to them from this vantage point. When something comes through the system and is tagged Houdini, I copy it onto my drive and copy that onto a disc for backup. I’m almost positive he’s got someone in our office—because I noticed recently that some of what I’ve got on my drive has been conveniently scrubbed from the office’s server.

A few years back, when I first decided to look at Luca’s file, I started browsing all the active mafia stuff—to throw off anyone who might look at my digital footprint—and I think that’s what led to my assignment on the Armenian task force. My predecessor D.A., Christopher Rutherford, thought my time pouring over mafia casework meant I was interested in that kind of prosecution.

I wonder what he’d think if he knew the truth.

My favorite stretching spot is coming up: a little bench near a condo complex’s revolving doorway, where there’s always a doorman posted. On weekends and holidays, when I do a street run instead of my usual home gym gig, I stretch before leaving my place, but I like to do a few things right before I start down Fifth Avenue on the first leg of my run.

I push the bottom of my shoe sole up against the bench’s leg, stretching my calf, and then I do the other one. I’m wearing second gen AirPods, but they’re on the setting that cuts out all the white noise, so I can hear what’s going on around me. I listen carefully as I stretch my hamstrings. Ever since my detailing ended, I’ve become more cautious about being out in the dark. I have a can of pepper spray clipped to my pants, but I’ve been thinking of taking up cycling. Although if someone wanted to take me out, I assume they could manage even with me on a bike.

Stop that, I tell myself firmly. Nothing is going to happen to you.

The doorman waves as I slip my iPhone into its arm band. I wave back, start my smart watch, and set off, soothed by the rhythm of traffic and the uniquely Manhattan scent of exhaust, coffee, and fresh snow falling on the oil-blotched asphalt.

I don’t give Luca permission to enter my brain, but he lurks as I run. I see him in the crowd that night back in November, clapping with his lips curved into a smile. Luca. Sometimes it seems impossible that he was really there.

And why was he? Ree thinks it was a play to my emotions, for when, inevitably, a case involving him or one of his people crosses my desk. When I saw Dani on Christmas night, she had a completely different theory. She thinks he wanted to see me win.

“I think he still loves you,” she’d slurred, half asleep in my lap. She said something that my brain has circled back to: “It’s like Romeo and Juliet…except the outside forces won.”

Does Dani not remember Romeo and Juliet? It’s not as if they “won.” I know she used to like lit class, so I figure she must have had way too much to drink before we found each other at that party and slipped into a sitting room to chat. There’s something going on with her lately, but I’m not sure what.

Snow starts falling faster as I follow the slick sidewalk into Central Park. Small flakes cling to my eyelashes. I pull my neck gaiter over the bridge of my nose and lengthen my strides, appreciating how my shoe soles grip the icy surface of East Drive.

There’s a snowy cut-through to the running path around the reservoir. It’s narrower than East Drive, shaded by thick trees in some spots. I want that now—the insulation. Let the snow muffle my feelings. I hit the path at a sprint, and the trees swallow me up. The reservoir’s surface looks milky white under powdery patches of snow, working on becoming wholly frozen. I try to pretend I’m in some far-away land…someplace where it’s only me, none of life’s problems. Wind tosses snow around the path ahead of me.

Still, he dances through my mind. Adult Luca in his adult suit, half brand new and half the oldest thing I know. And he was there for me. He was looking up at me. I remember how my eyes just…picked him. Then I saw his face and couldn’t ever look away.

I realize I don’t want his case on my docket. I want him to disappear into an alternate universe where I won’t have to see him ever again.

That’s my dirty secret: I still ache.

I tuck a strand of hair into my beanie, ratcheting up my pace until my quads burn. Studded trainers for the win.

I’m unstoppable, I tell myself—and I believe me. I’ve had more than double Becca’s years on this earth. In her honor, I’ve taught myself to be strong. Who cares if a case relating to him passes through my office? Even if he came that night to watch me…even if I still remember that look on his face after I slapped him in the elevator—and sometimes I see that wide-eyed, shocked face in my nightmares—the fact remains that we’re both full-grown adults now. He’s a stranger. That he’s also a mob don isn’t really relevant at all.