Page 5 of Make Me A Sinner
The money came from a small town in Italy—Montalcino, Tuscany. Since I already took the jet to California, fueling up and flying out for Italy took less than an hour.
I landed in Montalcino early in the morning—too early to chase any new leads. That gave me time to try and cool off. I had no idea what I would’ve done to her in that state.
I sat down at the café across the street from the shop where she sent the money. Maybe the guy working there knows something.
And about six ristrettos later, I’m ready to find out.
I consider myself to be a very direct man. I don’t beat around the bush about the things I want, and I don’t leave without getting what I came for.
I walk into the shop, and since I don't see any other employees, I suspect the guy hauling fruit stands outside is also the owner. Small businesses flourish in towns like these. And since he’sthe only one around, that makes my job much easier because it probably means he’s the one who helped her send the money.
I don’t bother with hello, just head straight to the counter and slide a piece of paper to him: "Some money was sent from here yesterday to this address. I want to know who sent it."
But the poor bastard doesn't seem to want to cooperate. They never do. "I don’t remember. Look, we handle a lot of transactions here."
I slip my hand in my pocket and pull out a fistful of hundred-dollar bills, fanning them over the counter. "Please,dotry to remember," my voice ironic and clipped. I'm giving him one last chance before I switch to methods more to my liking and make him recall every single aspect of the day before.
"Sorry, but I can't hand out personal info to justanyonewho walks in here," the man tries to cut me off, turning his back on me, like he’s suddenly busy arranging merchandise on a shelf.
No one ignores me.
Besides, he knows her. His place isn't doing well enough to turn down a couple grand for some basic info.
The bastard’s trying to protect her.
The thought gets my blood pumping, and my hands shaking.
The urge to destroy this whole fucking town becomes overwhelming. I've been a nervous wreck lately, and this fucker's not helping with that smug attitude, especially now that I'm starting to think he’s got a thing for her.
Is he fucking her?
Everything goes black. The idea pushes me to the verge of my sanity, and before I know it, I'm behind the counter, hand around his neck, slamming him into the wall so hard he leaves a dent in the drywall.
"Do you think I’m justanyone?" I growl, my teeth threatening to break from the pressure.
I have to keep the fucker alive—at least until he talks. I need to get answers before whatever madness is building in my head takes full control.
"Tell me where she is!" I snarl, squeezing even tighter, almost hearing his spine start to give in from the pressure. The snap of his throat would make such a beautiful tune. But I still need him to be able to talk—for now.
"I know she's running from her past. And I’m starting to think it’s you she’s running from. I won't let you hurt her," the bastard decides to play the fucking knight in shining armor for her. Little does he know, she belongs to the devil himself.
Still, I’m reluctant to kill him right here and now because if he laid a single finger on her, there are things far worse than death waiting for him. Instead, I hoist him higher, right before I slam his body onto the ground. This time, I do hear bones breaking and it does sound like a fucking symphony.
I realize that if he doesn't answer me fast enough, he won't ever get a chance to. A question takes over my mind, and I won't rest until I know the truth. "Are you fucking her?" I noticed a flicker in his eyes when I mentioned her. And that wasn't just him playing gentlemen.
The answer comes quickly and with sharp breaths. "No," he assures me, probably realizing what I’m truly capable of.
He's telling the truth; I feel it in my gut. That gets me to be a little more generous and not end his miserable life right now. "Give me her address, and I’ll let you live."
He knows I mean business. My hand tightens around his throat again. I’m about to rip his vocal cords out through his mouth if he doesn't start talking.
Finally, like he’s coming to his senses, he croaks, “Rosemary Villa—outside of town.”
One punch sends him to sleep. He's going to need a lot of time to recover, but he’ll live—only because, in a moment of weakness, I promised him so.
I leave the store, ask the next local I see for directions, then take the rental car I picked up a couple of hours ago and drive straight to Rosemary Fucking Villa.
four
