Page 40 of Tormented Diamonds
“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and while I applaud the effort, it won’t work. If you want to know the business between your husband and me, talk to him.”
I glance over his head to where Leo has his cell phone in his hand and a “game set match” look plastered across his face.
Shit.He’s callingGianni.
I must look like a panicked kid who dropped her ice cream cone because Bobby holds up his hand, stopping my protest before it even gets off the ground. “That being said, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t warn you…”
“I don’t need?—”
“The Marchesis are a cancer,” he says, overriding me. “They’ll take everything from you, and when you’re no longer useful, they’ll destroy what’s left.” Pulling a notepad and a pen out of his apron, he scribbles on the back of an order ticket and hands it to me. “You seem like you have an honest soul, Becca. I pray the ring on your finger doesn’t stain it.”
Tossing one last heated stare toward Leo, he disappears through the swinging doors, leaving me more confused than when I walked in. I hear the distinct sound of Leo’s shoes click-clacking across the floor as I glance down at the paper in my hand.
Call if you ever need help.
555-9490
I crumple it in my hand and shove it in my pocket seconds before Leo takes a firm hold of my arm and steers me out the front door.
The traffic is heavier on our way back to Montclair. Leo had a “gut feeling that wouldn’t go away,” so instead of taking the Garden State Parkway, we tacked on an extra twenty minutes by taking the less convenient and more congested highway. Cars crowd us, crossing lanes and weaving around each other just to gain another six inches. Leo is cursing and engaging in one-man road rage, but all I can focus on is Bobby’s warning.
“The Marchesis are a cancer. They’ll take everything from you, and when you’re no longer useful, they’ll destroywhat’s left.”
It seems like every hour brings another bombshell. My stomach turns at the thought of confronting Gianni about his father’s side business, but I refuse to just buy a gun and put up a wall. A storm doesn’t disappear just because you close your eyes. I have to face it head-on or risk getting swept away.
That starts with leveling with my husband.
I’m not sure two hours offered enough of a buffer for calm and rational conversation to begin with, and with Leo being a dirty snitch, the odds are even lower. The hostile tension he carried out of the restaurant was thick enough to slice.
I lean my head against the glass of the rear passenger side window and try not to think about it, only for Leo to cut a hard right, then a rapid left, slinging me away from and then straight into the glass with a skull-crushing thud.
“Sorry about that,” he calls out from the front seat, his gaze bouncing between the rearview mirror and the road. “You okay back there?”
“Yeah.” I straighten my glasses, wincing as my fingers brush my temple. “Did I miss the part where we joined the Indy 500?”
His laugh is way too loud for a joke that isn’t that funny. “Nah, just typical Jersey traffic.” The panicked way he keeps looking in the rearview mirror says differently.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
He meets my stare and draws in a deep breath. “Okay, don’t freak out, but I think we’re being followed.”
We’rewhat?” I twist around, the shoulder strap of my seatbelt slipping off as I crane my neck toward the back window. “Where? Which car?”
“Glad you didn’t freak out.”
I toss a flat stare at him over my shoulder. “You can’t say something like that and expect me not to react. Besides, these windows are beyond illegally tinted. No onesaw me.” I whip back around, scrutinizing the trail of impatient drivers. “I don’t see anyone tailing us.”
“That’s because they’re on your left.”
I peer out the side window. “The red minivan?”
“One lane over. The white Camry.”
It takes half a second to locate the car he’s referring to. It’s running about five miles per hour less than us, enough to keep up while staying out of direct sight. I can tell a man is behind the wheel, but between the Benz’s heavy tint and the glare of headlights off my glasses, that’s pretty much it. “Are you sure?”
There’s more hope hanging on those words than I care to admit. While there’s nothing suspicious about the car or the man, I can’t shake the growing unease that’s lingered all week. Something feels off—like the eerie calm of a summer day moments before an EF5 tornado wipes out an entire civilization.
“No,” he admits crisply. “Which is why I didn’t want to say anything. The guy mimicked a few lane changes and rode my ass a little too close for my liking. It could be a simple case of shitty driving, but I enjoy having kneecaps, so I’m not sticking around to find out.” His eyes shift back to the mirror. “Fix your seatbelt.”
