Page 101 of Letters From Victor

Kowalski pushed off the doorframe and prowled into the kitchen. “It’s not imagination, sweetheart. Just the way things work. Guys like Cardello, they take what they want. And girls like you?—”

“Get out,” I said, cutting him off. “Get out now before I call the police.”

He barked a short laugh. “Ah, don’t be like that, doll face.” He took a step toward me, leading with his belly, his eyes predatory. “We’re just getting to know each other.” He reached out a hand to cup my cheek.

I sidestepped out of his reach and moved to the other side of the kitchen, wiping at imaginary spills on the spotless counter, feigning distraction.

“Mmm, feisty. I like that in a broad.”

My gaze swept the kitchen, cataloging possibilities—the cast-iron skillet hanging over the island, the butcher knives resting in their wooden block near the sink, the weighty glass jars of flour and sugar, the percolator bubbling with scalding coffee. I focused on the percolator’s glass knob as if it were a crystal ball, as if it might hold an omen—a glimpse of whether I’d survive this night.

It burbled and hissed, and the rich scent of coffee curled through the kitchen. I watched the steam rise, willing it to burn away the suffocating weight in the air. My hands were steadier now, my mind settling into the cold reality that I had no choice but to serve this brute before me.

I pulled a ceramic mug from the cabinet and poured the coffee into it in an unhurried stream. Turning, I set the mug on the counter in front of Kowalski. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on me, his smirk curling at the edges like a bad habit.

“Where’s yours?” he asked.

“I don’t drink coffee at night,” I said. “It keeps me awake.”

Kowalski’s smirk darkened into something more sinister. “You think I’m stupid? Poison is a woman’s trick. I’m not that easy to put down.”

My pulse stuttered. Did he really think I’d try to kill him? The idea was laughable—I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to reach for a skillet, let alone lace his coffee like some femme fatale in a dime-store novel.

The telephone in the foyer shrilled—a sudden, jarring slash through the tension-filled silence. I flinched, my pulse spiking.

Kowalski’s gaze flicked toward the foyer, then back to me, unreadable. “Better get that.”

I let it ring twice, my eyes locked with Kowalski’s, neither of us moving. On the third ring, I turned toward the foyer, each step deliberate, my mind a riot of hope and fear. My hand hesitated on the receiver before I lifted it and cleared my throat.

“Hello?”

“Babs? It’s Edith.” Relief flickered, but it was fleeting. “You didn’t call when you got home. I was starting to worry.”

“Edie,” I said, smoothing the unease from my voice. “I just got in. It’s been…a long evening.”

I risked a glance at Kowalski. He had drifted to the edge of the living room, one thick hand hovering near a framed photograph of Frankie. My stomach turned cold.

“Barbara,” Edith’s voice sharpened. “Something’s wrong. I can hear it.”

“I just got caught up with a few things in the kitchen,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone. “I’m sorry I forgot to call.”

Kowalski gestured for me to wrap it up.

“Just stay on the line a moment,” Edith insisted.

“Look, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Babs, wait?—”

I set the receiver down, cutting off whatever protest Edith had poised on her lips. The ache in my chest was sharp,desperate. I wanted to tell her, to let her know the danger I was in. But I couldn’t. She would try to intervene, and that would only make things worse. I needed her to stay safe. To keep my son safe.

Kowalski sprawled in my favorite armchair, legs splayed wide, owning the space like he’d paid for it.

“Who was that?”

“My…sister.”

He examined his fingernails, bored. “She sounds nice. The kind of gal who’d do anything for family.”

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