Dammit! I had a whole plan of being pleasant to soften Anastasio up so that he might drop his guard enough to reveal some information. Like maybe Nico sent someone to investigate my mom’s house after dinner, or even some other information that I might be able to use against him.
But I guess you don’t survive for this long in this world by not being observant.
So, I choose a different approach altogether. "Why does he want me at church on Sunday?"
“You’re not very familiar with Italians, are you?”
“My mom’s half-Italian if that counts.” I shrug. “Makes a mean ziti.”
“Any asshole with a cookbook can make a ziti, so it doesn’t count,” he replies. “Especially if she hadn’t been bringing you to church.”
“Oh come on, you can’t be serious about this.” I roll my eyes. “Nico is the last one who should believe in God with the number of people he’s killed.”
“That’s what confessions are for. Priests are vow-bound to never betray a confessor.” Anastasio chuckles. “You’d know that if you spent any time at church.”
“So that’s the real reason he’s bringing me? Because he’s a God-fearing man?”
"Well, not exactly,” Anastasio drawls. “Real reason is that everyone who matters will be there. Rumor’s already spreadingabout how he tore up the Greek contract for some girl no one's met." He changes lanes. "They want to see if it was worth it."
"And what do you think?"
"I think a war's expensive." Anastasio glances over. "And I think it’s pretty damn interesting that Don Nico refuses to tell me a single thing about you, other than the fact that you’re important to him. For all the years I’ve known him, he’s never done that before.”
Really? I wonder what other things Nico’s never done before. My mind turns to dinner last night, and I can’t help the blush that makes its way up my cheeks as I remember his cock emptying in my hands while I sucked his thumb.
Or how good it felt licking his cum off my fingers, knowing that I can make him lose control.
My teeth tug on my bottom lip, and suddenly I’m very glad Anastasio isn’t sparing me any more glances than he needs.
“So either you're nothing,” Anastasio continues, snapping me out of my own dirty thoughts. “Or you're a knife at his throat."
“That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“Just making conversation.” He shrugs.
“But now that we’re making conversation,” I say. “How long have you been working for my husband?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Really? Were the two of you beating kids up for their lunch money?”
“Nah,” he replies. “He was the one beating up the other kids for stealing mine.”
Of all answers that he could’ve given me, that might’ve been the last one I expected.
“Do you really expect me to believe that kids used to beat you up for lunch money?”
“I was a scrawny kid who grew up poor.” He merges into the exit lane towards Soho. “Mom and pop scrimped and saved just enough to send me to a good school, where the rich kids loved reminding me of where I came from. Except Nico. Pulled two big kids who were busy shoving my face in the asphalt.”
I don’t say anything as I take in what Anastasio tells me. For all I know, this is all just another lie that he’s spinning on behalf of Nico. But there’s a sincerity in his voice that I can pick up. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that sincerity is one of the hardest things to fake.
“Is that where he got that scar on his face?” I ask. “From defending you?”
“No.” The easy laugh disappears from Anastasio’s face, and I know that I just asked something that I shouldn’t have asked.
“Then how did it happen?”
His face turns serious, and this time, he doesn't answer my question.