Page 27 of My Dark Fairy Tale
“Napoli.” He spat a wad of blood onto the floor beside the table. “Originally.”
“Ah, and how long have you been in our lovely Toscana?”
“Four years.”
Premonition skittered down my spine. Four years ago my father was killed. Four years ago I became a man I’d never intended to be. “Where do you work?”
“With the vines. Up near Pistoia.”
“What car do you drive?”
He blinked but answered easily enough, caught in the tide of rapid questions. “A 2012 Lancia Ypsilon.”
“Color?” I asked, deceptively calm even though my blood was surging through my veins, thirsting to spill some of his. I had armed myself with more information about him over breakfast with Guinevere, so I was ready to catch him out.
“Blue.”
Chi vince piglia tutto.
We have a winner!
“Well, Galasso, I am sorry my men bothered you. We have had trouble with rats, you see, and you have the distinct look of one.” I shrugged and gestured to his broken nose with my glass. “Maybe it is the nose? Either way, please accept my apologies. They acted without thinking as sometimes soldiers do.”
Galasso peered at me through his small brown eyes, brow furrowed as he chewed furiously over my words, testing their merit. I merely returned his gaze calmly.
Eventually, he sighed, and the tension in his shoulders dissolved a bit. “Thank you. I thought being brought in front of Il Gentiluomo had to be a mistake.”
“Yes, yes. Please, lift your glass and drink with me. It is a very fine vintage befitting an apology.”
Galasso was clearly not a clever man, because though he had heard of my reputation enough to know what they called me in theunderworld, he raised his glass with a barely shaking hand and clinked it against my own.
“Salute,” we said in unison, and each brought the wine to our mouths.
I watched over the rim of the glass as Galasso took a deep draught of the Brunello di Montalcino red and then, finding it exemplary, he took another, longer taste.
When I lowered my glass without drinking, he did not notice.
“It is good, no?” I asked with a bland smile when he downed the wine like a heathen and set the empty glass heavily on the table.
“Excellent,” he admitted. “We make good wine in Pistoia, but it is mostly Vernaccia. It is nice to have a decent red.”
“You like wine, then.”
“Mmm, what Italian doesn’t?” He laughed, and the line of his shoulders loosened completely, his thighs spreading wider beneath the table. Getting comfortable.
“Of course. Wine, cars, and women.”
Understanding made his wizened brows lift. “This is why you asked about my car. Ah. I admit, it is not a fancy one. I bet you drive something slick. A Lamborghini.”
“Close.” I dipped my head and poured him another glass of wine. Watched his thick fingers close around the glass and imagined them closing around Guinevere’s thin ankle. “A Ferrari.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed, as if he had guessed correctly from the start. “I knew it. I love the Ferrari. What I wouldn’t give to drive one someday.”
I let the moment settle. Watched as he drank down more of that fine red wine.
“You know,” he said with a sly look. “It would be a good way to forget how your men treated me. That one with the face like a pig’s nearly put out my shoulder.”
In the corner behind me, Ludo grunted softly.
