Page 21 of Precious Hazard

“Del Vecchio’s Grill.” It’s a gem of an Italian chophouse, hidden away in Brooklyn. The only place my medium-rare steak hasn’t been screwed up at some point.

With all the shit I’ve had to deal with in the past couple of days, I don’t even remember the last time I ate a decent meal. Having to wrangle Drago’s infuriating sister after wading knee-deep through the crap Wang keeps flinging, is the last thing I want to do. But, to sell this charade for the benefit of trigger-happy people, sacrifices must be made.

I push up the sleeve of my jacket and peek at my watch. Twenty seconds. If she doesn’t—

The car door opens, and the bane of my existence gets in. I look her over, from the tattered gray sweatpants to a cropped T-shirt that leaves her stomach bare and shows off a sparkly belly button piercing. Finally, my gaze halts at the top of her head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You said I had three minutes,” she says nonchalantly while adjusting one of the orange velcro rollers in her hair. “Ihad just enough time to pee, grab my purse, and put on my shoes. So—”

“We’re headed to dinner.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll have the curlers out by the time we get there.”

Closing my eyes, I start counting to ten, hoping that will quell the urge to kill her. “Riggo. Change of plans. Back to the house.”

“What? I’m not going with you to whatever hell pit you call home.”

Madonna Santa, give me the strength and patience not to end this day in bloodshed. Taking a calming breath, I pin her with my stare.

“You’re going wherever the fuck I tell you to go. I’m fed up with your childish behavior, so you better get a grip and start playing along. Or, I’ll make this situation way, way worse for you. Do. You. Understand?”

“I don’t think it can get any worse than it already is. Fucking Satan.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Tara crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. With her attention directed at the scenery beyond the window, she starts mumbling some nonsense to herself. I don’t catch all of what she’s on about, hearing only words like “fluffy” and “bear,” followed by a choice expletive or two.

Whatever. Taking out my laptop, I open my emails and dive into work. Completely ignoring the furious woman beside me.

***

“You hungry?” I ask as I throw my jacket over the back of the couch.

“I won’t be breaking bread with an enemy, especially under his roof.”

Pausing on my way to the kitchen, I throw a glance over my shoulder. Tara remains standing in the middle of the living room. With her hands on her hips, she’s slashing me with an irritated look.

Shrugging, I head to the fridge. “Then starve.”

The last couple of days, it’s been one meal out after another, so my choices for a decent home-cooked supper are limited. I grab a package of chicken breasts and some cremini mushrooms, setting them by the cutting board while I busy myself with getting everything else to make a classic Italian-American dish ready.

While I work—cutting the poultry into strips, then season, dredge in flour, and get them into a hot skillet filled with melted butter and oil—I throw a quick glance at Tara. She strides around the living room, checking out Sienna’s various knickknacks scattered on the bookshelves. Each time she picks one up to examine it, she sets it back, but never in the original place.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that you like mermaids.”

I look up from flipping the chicken in the pan to find Tara hovering near the TV stand with a snow globe in her hand.

“It’s Sienna’s. She loves leaving her glittery shit all over the house,” I say. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the need to make a correction. “Used to, I mean.” At times, I forget that neither of my sisters live here anymore.

“And you’ve kept it in place?”

“Yeah.”

Tara returns the decoration to the stand, but on the opposite side of where it was before, and continues her perusal. She’s sporting a slightly bewildered expression while unabashedly snooping through all my things. My guess is that she assumed I’d be a quintessential bachelor, with a preference for minimalistic decor. If truth be told, that ultra-modern style showcased in the magazines Sienna used to leave lying around doesn’t appeal to me in the least. Those featured rooms always looked sterile, staged to be seen and nothing else. A home should look and feel lived in, not like some damn interior design ad.

Crossing the room to the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, Tara pauses by the pictures hanging on the nearby wall.

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