Page 110 of Precious Hazard

She peeks around the corner. “Of course. Anything in particular?”

“Just see what she wants. But maybe forgo another soup. I’m sure she’s sick and tired of those after a full week of eating them. By the way, thank you for going out of your way and cooking them for me. They were… quite nourishing.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t me. Did you like how the cream of potato turned out? Mrs. DeVille had a bit of trouble with it.”

I jerk to a halt halfway to the front door. “You didn’t make the soups while I was sick?”

“No, that was your wife. She was worried about you being contagious, so she gave me a week off and didn’t let anyone else inside the house.” She resumes wiping the countertop and then exhales a heavy sigh. “Poor thing. She was so nervous. Called me each time she thought the stove made a strange noise. Or whenever the smell of gas lingered in the kitchen longer than she expected it would. You might want to consider replacing it with an electric range, Mr. DeVille. This one must be a very painful reminder of what happened to her dear sister.”

“Her sister died in a bomb blast.”

“Actually, no. Mrs. DeVille said it was in the house fire that followed after the gas to their stove blew up. Honestly, if I were her, I’d probably never be able to go near another gas appliance or any kind of flame. But that girl—”

I don’t hear what else Greta says. Instead, I take off sprinting up the stairs. Ignoring the ringing phone in my pocket. Not caring that it’s probably the don on the line. What the fuck? Why didn’t she tell me? I’m in front of her door in no time.

“Tara.”

Knock. Knock.

“I’m sleeping!” An agitated, terse reply. “Go away.”

I sigh, leaning my forehead against the white door. “Why did you lie? Why did you let me believe that it was Greta who was preparing my meals? And why… why the fuck didn’t you just tell me about your issue with the stove?”

Her footsteps echo as she approaches the door and then opens it a crack. “I didn’t lie, DeVille. You simply assumed. Just as you assumed many other things about me.”

“I’m sorry,gattina. I… I thought you hated my guts.”

“Save your apologies. Especially since, as you so eloquently implied, the food sucked a big one. I hope that, at least, the notes I left for you on that contract didn’t disappoint you as much.”

“Those were… amazing. But I figured it was Ginger who made them, not you.”

“Hmm. Well… Perhaps, next time,shecould nurse you while you run an insane fever, force-feed you meds, and drag your heavy ass into a cold shower to bring it down.”

The door slams shut in my face for the second time today.

I stare at the slab of the door, at a loss for words, while a myriad of emotions rage inside me. Suffocating me. It wasn’t a hallucination. All those flashes that I thought were a product of my fever were real. She was there the whole time. Jesus fuck, she could have gotten seriously sick because of me, all while I’ve been spewing shit at her like a stupid asshole.

And the gas stove… Fuck! I never even bothered to figure out the reason behind her reticence to cook. I simply assumed it was one of her bratty impulses. I never thought… Shit. She’s been making me food for days. Dear God, my little hazard must have been scared out of her mind, and yet… she pushed past it. For me. For the ungrateful fucknut that I am.

Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead on the wooden surface. My palms, too, like I can shove the stupid thing away. Remove the damn barrier between us. But it’s not the door that’s separating us. It’s my idiotic behavior. From the very beginning of… us.

“Tara,” I rasp.

“Leave me alone!” The words, muffled and a little broken, flow through the solid wood standing in my way. “And answer that bloody phone! It’s annoying.”

***

“Are you listening to me, Arturo?”

I drag my gaze up from my hands and look at Nino. We’ve spent the last hour in Ajello’s office, briefing the donon our next steps for dealing with the Greek Syndicate. When Ajello’s phone rang, and he got up and headed to the far corner to speak with his wife, my mind again drifted to the scene between me and Tara earlier. That’s the only thing I seem to be capable of thinking of since leaving home.

“Not really.” I shrug. My skin is crawling with the need to get home. To my Tara. I’m not sure I give a fuck about stategizing or generally doing my job right the fuck now.

“I said, it sucks that we can’t simply kill the old Katrakis,” Nino grumbles from the other side of the conference desk. “Politics, even Mafia politics, are such a pain in the ass.”

I grunt. The two dead security guys at our Brooklyn construction site were Regular Joes, temps from a locally hired private security firm. A firm we’ve been looking at recruiting into our ranks. The deal isn’t done yet, so we can’t claim that it was our men who were killed. There’s also ambiguity in terms of Katrakis’s motive. Without any solid proof that it was a direct attack on our Family, we can’t assert justifiable retaliation against the Greeks.

Navigating the criminal underbelly of the world is a tricky business. With so many players jam-packed into close quarters, one wrong move could seriously impact whether you live long enough to enjoy that elbow room you managed to carve out for yourself. Every action needs to be weighed against every possible outcome to ensure it won’t endanger the Family’s prosperity. I know that, too. And I’ve never had a problem with it. Until today.

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