Page 164 of Bitter Poetry
Fucking great.
They already knew a man had taken her in a white delivery van—Angela told them, but now they have pictures to prove it.
The ants are crawling.
Since that footage turned up, they haven’t fucking stopped.
It’s currently up on the monitor. Rocco is writing shit down with an actual notepad and pen. Who even uses paper anymore?
I always thought of myself as pretty unfazed. But the ants never lie, and sitting in a room looking at an image, as shit as it is, is an exercise in nerves.
I know it’s me.
How do they not recognize it’s me?
Jero is sitting beside me, drumming his fingers erratically against the desk.
“Angela is six feet tall, right?” Peter says. “And he’s gotta be a couple of inches taller than her. Well built, young, clean-shaven. Can’t be that many men who fit that description.”
“Fucking hundreds of them,” I mutter.
“Hundreds? Who could choke out a former Marine and lug her into the back of the car without missing a beat? That’s someone with training,” Peter says.
I wish he would shut the fuck up.
Jero is still tapping out a weird, discordant rhythm.
“Would you stop that, please?” Rocco says, swiping his hand across his brow. “You’re giving me a headache.”
I’m confident that was down to Ettore wrapping his fingers around his throat earlier, but whatever.
“Sorry, mate,” Jero says. “And you’re right, Peter. Not many would fit that profile.”
He’s not looking at me. But it feels like his statement is directed at me.
I’ve been playing a double agent since the start. It didn’t sound so dramatic at the beginning, but today and now, it kind of does.
I can’t pull out. Disappearing suddenly would likely draw attention to Dante, or at the least suddenly throw me and everything I’ve done under a spotlight, which would also lead back to Dante. And if anything leads this back to him in other ways, he’ll need a warning. I’m the only way he’s going to get that. Mateo gave me his number and told me to message him whenever possible so that they know I’m good. When he came over here with Dante and we were chatting at the bar, it turned out he supports the same football team as me. It’s as good a cover as any, and we have a code phrase if something goes south.
But I’m trapped.
I never felt it before.
My neck is tight and itchy like someone has slipped a noose around it.
Rocco pauses the video for what feels like the millionth time.
It’s me… how the fuck do they not see it?!
“How many do you have on the list so far?” Peter asks Rocco.
He’s profiling people who could have done this.
Thank fuck he’s shit.
“Three,” Rocco says.
Three? I can think of half a dozen myself.
