We take turns dragging the body a few feet at a time until we reach the boat. After that, flipping the rowboat is nothing. I fill the garbage bag with heavy rocks and tie it to the other end of the rope, then we heave the body into the boat and push off across the water.
“I wouldn’t have expected to enjoy a romantic, moonlit boat ride, but this is kind of nice,” he muses as we row out into the middle of the lake.
“The body makes it more exciting. It might be kind of boring otherwise.” I smile and he grins back.
“You get me.”
It’s cheesy as hell, but my heart flutters. I think I do get him, and I think this could be something real. I just need to figure out how to handle telling Lorenzo.
GHOST
After we dump the body, we drive back to the city, and I direct Alessio to my apartment with a knot in my stomach. My place is a fucking dump compared to his. It’s a dump compared to most actual dumps.
“Why don’t you wait here while I run up?” I suggest.
He gives me a flat look and shuts off the engine. “I don’t give a shit what your place looks like, Spettro.”
“Wait until you see it,” I mutter, getting out of the car. “Whose car is this, anyway? I didn’t think you had one. I’ve only ever seen you walk.”
Alessio’s eyebrows go up, and I realize my mistake.
“You been following me, Spettro?”
My cheeks heat. “Only a little.”
He barks out a laugh and comes around the front of the car, stopping right in front of me, enough space left between us to let me decide whether to touch him or not. My heart stutters and a warm feeling fills my gut. He really does get me. At least he seems to. I’ve never had that before—not that I can remember, anyway—and it’s fucking nice. Terrifying, but nice. I hook my fingers in the front of his harness and drag him the last inch so his chest bumps into mine and all I have to do is tilt my head to catch his lips in a kiss.
“I don’t have a car,” he says, answering my question. “I don’t know whose it is. I called one of my guys and they dropped it off.” He shrugs, and I chuckle quietly against his lips.
“The life of a mafioso sounds cushy as hell.”
“It’s not bad,” he agrees, and I let him go.
“Come on, let’s get my shit. I’m fucking tired.”
I try not to pay attention to any of his reactions as I let him inside and lead him up the stairs to my apartment. I can’t help but justify it as I unlock the door and wave him inside though.
“I don’t have any ID or anything, and this place didn’t require a background check. Plus, they let me rent month to month, and the neighbors are all too high to worry about when I come or go, or if I come home with blood splattered on my clothes.”
“Seriously, I don’t care,” he says again, stepping inside.
I can’t do much about the mold in the corner of the ceiling, peeling wallpaper, or the cockroaches that occasionally scuttle by, but aside from my bed being unmade and my sketchpad lying open on my pillow, I keep the place decently tidy, all things considered. I pause for just a second to let it all sink in, then I grab my backpack from the hook next to the door and get to work packing the essentials.
“Is that why you do the B&Es?” he asks, wandering around the small space and trying to stay out of my way. “Because you don’t have an ID or anything?”
“Yeah, mostly. That and I didn’t want to waste time at a bullshit, minimum wage job all day long when I could be focusing on the Sleepless Reapers. The shit I can take from one penthouse is usually enough to cover my meager expenses for a month or two at a time.”
He nods in understanding and stops next to my bed, his eyes landing on my sketchpad.
“Who’s this?” His eyebrows pull together and he picks up the book to take a closer look.
I ball my fists to resist the urge to reach out and snatch it away from him. It feels too raw, too vulnerable to let him see the drawings of the nameless face that haunts my dreams.
“I don’t know.” I lose the fight and grab the book from him. I close it and toss it into my bag.
“You don’t know?” he repeats skeptically.
“Nope.” I shove a few shirts and pairs of underwear into my bag and tuck my pistol into the waist of my jeans. “He’s not a boyfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I don’t think he is, anyway.