I’m still processing this revelation when the full implication of his answer crashes into me like a freight train. My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
“So you really did bury a body,” I say slowly, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.
“I really did.” He doesn’t even hesitate. Just states it like he’s confirming he prefers coffee to tea.
Cool cool cool cool cool. This is fine. Everything is fine. Just having a casual conversation about corpse disposal on a lovely afternoon.
“Are you gonna tell me about it?”
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
For fuck’s sake, Emmaleen! You’re playing a game with a man who shot someone when he was eight and just admitted to burying a body!
This is a crisis, not a damn therapy session! What kind of self-preserving instinct makes you ask for details?
“Do you really want to hear about it?”
Giovanni’s question hangs in the air between us, suspended like a grenade with the pin halfway out. His eyes never leave the road, but I feel the weight of his attention anyway, pressing against my skin.
“You recited your poem for me,” he continues, his voice measured in that deliberate way that makes everything sound like a business proposition. “So I guess that means I owe you a story.”
I owe you a story. As if we’re just two people trading anecdotes at a cocktail party, not a crime lord and his temporary assistant discussing casual homicide on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Do I want to know?
Part of me—the sensible, self-preserving part that’s been systematically ignored since I got into this car—screams absolutely not. This is how people end up as accessories after the fact. This is how they end up needing witness protection. This is how they end up as cautionary tales on true crime podcasts.
But the other part of me—the part that used to stay up until 3 a.m. reading dark romances where the villain gets the girl—whispersyes. Because knowledge is leverage, and I currentlyhave none. Because every detail he shares is a breadcrumb on a trail I might need to follow back to safety someday.
Because I’m sitting next to a man who’s probably killed people, and I need to know if I’m riding with Tony Soprano or Hannibal Lecter.
Giovanni doesn’t push. He just drives, one hand resting casually on the wheel like we’re out for a Sunday cruise instead of heading to a mob family dinner. The silence stretches between us, dangerously thin.
I should say no. I should change the subject. I should ask about the weather or gas mileage or literally anything else.
Instead, I find myself calculating risk factors like some demented actuary of bad decisions.
If he tells me and then has to kill me, at least I’ll die knowing.
If he tells me and doesn’t kill me, I’ll have information.
If he doesn’t tell me, I’ll still be in this car with a murderer, just an extra-mysterious one.
None of these options is “get out of car, run screaming into the hills,” which would be the correct choice according to every horror movie ever made.
But I’ve been making bad choices since I signed that contract this morning, so why stop now?
“Yes,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. “I want to know.”
Giovanni’s mouth curves into something almost like a smile, but sharper. More predatory.
“When I was a teenager,” he begins, his tone shifting into something softer, almost nostalgic, “my cousin Jino had a protection dog—a German Shepherd named Enzo.”
A dog? This is about a dog? My brain stutters, recalibrating from expected mafia hit to... pet story?
“Enzo had been with the family for twelve years. My cousin’s constant companion through some... difficult times.”
The way he says “difficult times” carries weight, like there’s a whole other story buried in those two words.