The lead hadn't been a dead end. As the evening wore on, Jerry's SUV finally pulled up in front of his wife's house. I watched from the car as he stepped out. Approaching the set of stairs between himself and the front door, his demeanor tense. Xenia and I exchanged glances before focusing on him again.
Jerry began to climb.
From our vantage point, we observed as the man knocked on the door, met by a woman who stood a head shorter than him, her eye roll evident even from a distance. Soon, they were engaged in a heated exchange on the balcony, their voices carrying faintly through the still evening air, emotions unmistakable despite the obscured words.
One might have expected the argument to revolve around his tardiness or perhaps his choice of vehicle for the weekend, but it seemed to be over something as trivial as the manner in which he had knocked.
"Ah, now it makes sense," Xenia said aloud, her attention fully absorbed by the altercation between the man and his wife.
Eager to grasp her insight, I inquired, "What do you mean?"
"Two things," she replied swiftly, elaborating, "why she'd rather cook than bother with Jerry, and why Jerry doesn't seem to mind that she's not the one warming his bed."
Perplexed, I pressed for clarification, and Xenia graciously took the time to decode the situation, eyes on me.
"Firstly, it's clear that the man unsettles her. And secondly, she looks significantly older, almost a decade or more." She huffed out a soft sigh in exasperation. "He's a fool, no matter how you look at it."
The car fell silent, our conversation halting as we listened to the continued commotion of the couple. The yelling, gesturing, and occasional retreats continued until a young boy emerged from the doorway, observing the scene. Only then did the couple take the hint to quiet down.
Jerry remained outside, sending his son in to retrieve his belongings as he paced anxiously on the small balcony. Once the boy had left and they were alone again, he moved closer to his wife, forcefully grasping her chin in a menacing grip.
"What the hell?" Xenia gasped, appalled by the sudden violence unfolding before us.
I, on the other hand, had watched my father go farther than this with my mother. The wife seemed to stiffen in resignation rather than defense.
"I'm not surprised," Xenia muttered bitterly and shrugged. "What's next? Will he throw her over the balcony and take her son?"
Suppressing a scoff, I replied, "Or tear her top to shreds."
My joke evaporated as I recalled Jerry's previous actions towards Xenia. He was despicable, and it was clear he needed a lesson in how to be a real man – a lesson I was more than willing to deliver.
"Romano, what's your plan?"
I began to pull away from the curb. Though I still wanted to keep Jerry under surveillance, now that I knew more about his wife, her address, and the strain in their relationship, I realized there was a better way to handle Jerry that involved putting his son and other people he cared about at risk. That antic usually delivered best.
I veered off Jerry's route and parked at a new vantage point, waiting until he had driven off before opening the door. "Let's go. We're walking," I said, stepping out of the car.
"To where?" A perplexed frown creased her brow as she reluctantly followed suit. "Where are we going, Romano?"
Slamming the car door shut, I gestured towards the street we had just left. "Back to his wife."
"You're shitting me, right?"
"No, I'm dead serious," I replied firmly, ignoring her incredulous expression. Her pale face was more amusing than concerning. This was all part of the job description, the easiest part even. Revealing ourselves to someone who could potentially assist us against another was routine.
The worst part of the job was the potential for unintended consequences. I once trailed a guy so aggressively that he became disoriented and drove himself down a hill. It turned out he was the wrong person entirely, and his reckless driving was a result of my presence startling him, not intentional evasion.
As men operating in the underground, we were accustomed to encountering dangerous situations. So, having a fucking chat with a woman was a welcome change of pace.
Xenia left her coat in the car and joined me, the twilight casting a seductive gleam on her skin. "Bad idea, but can we move?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the city.
Ignoring her request, I drew her closer, the chaos of the street — playing kids and passersby — fading into the background as I pinned her against the car, my grip on her neck bordered on disrespectful, if you didn't want to think "intimate".
"Not yet."
"What are you doing?" Her voice sounded weary as I nearly kissed her neck in broad daylight. "Romano, there's a kid staring at you."
Ah. My left brow arched. Most normal kids wouldn't witness something like this until they were well past eighteen. But my world was different from that.
"Are you worried about the kid or yourself?"
She gazed at me wide-eyed as my question reached her. Sighing, she shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."
Her pretense prompted me to withdraw from her neck, running my palm down her arm before releasing her. Towering over her, I effectively shielded her from view. If I dared to reach under her dress, only the adults nearby would notice, and that didn't sit quite right with me. Yet, I feigned indifference to the potential consequences. As my grip ventured towards her thigh, seemingly lifting her dress slightly, she shook violently to dislodge me.
"Fuck," she spat, gripping my hand tightly. "Both! Both! Stop. Christ."
"Why the pretense then, butterfly?" I asked. "You seem to flip-flop between wanting to return to your old life and staying right where I want you."
After a moment's hesitation, she whispered into my ear as she stretched to her toes, "Never said I didn't want you. I'm simply not sharing you. Not with Kate."
The rush of blood coursed through me like a damn flood. I toyed with the idea of giving it another shot, see if I could shake off the ghost of Angelo every time she melted under my touch. But with the damn road teeming with traffic, it was a lost cause. One problem was her damn concern for the people around us, or else I would've fucked her right there in the car. Another snag was our destination. The third headache? If I unleashed this pent-up aggression, impatience, and anger on her, I'd be kissing ass for days to make up for it.
Her eyes came back to me after straying to whatever was around us. "You could have done this in the car, you know that right?"
"I'm versatile," I said, a taunting smirk playing on my lips. "Some things are best enjoyed with an audience."
Pity, she wasn't laughing along. "I'm starting to wonder if you have any sense of boundaries at all."
"Since when do boundaries apply to us, huh? We've never been ones to play by the rules, or we'd not even be in this dilemma." Stepping back, I relinquished her dress completely, granting her the space she'd been silently pleading for, watching as she breathed out, relieved. "Right after you."
"Thank you," she spoke with a hint of smugness, striding ahead as if she owned the damn world. Her graceful movements and the sway of her ass made it near impossible to keep my eyes off her. It might've looked like she disgusted me, but in truth, I was scheming a hundred ways to maneuver around her without being held back by my bloody cousin's tainted grip.
$$$
"This is such a bad idea." Xenia's breathing took an unsettling turn and a tremor claimed her palms. "God my hands are freezing."
I enjoyed watching her deal with the fallout of her unintelligent move. It'd teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget. Even though I couldn't figure out why she was so damn emotional, I couldn't deny it was interesting as hell.
"Who is it?" a soft voice called out from the other side of the oak door after my knock.
Xenia and I exchanged wary looks as we heard footsteps drawing near. I motioned for her to position herself in front of the peephole and silently moved to the side, ready in case the woman peeked out before opening the door.
The lock clicked open with ease, and the door groaned as it swung open. Xenia stood frozen, her eyes darting in confusion, uncertain of her next move. Without hesitation, I stepped forward to her rescue.
"I'm sorry, we just want to have a friendly conversation," Xenia interjected as I pushed through the threshold without waiting for permission. "Well, maybe not friendly, but certainly not hostile. Romano, wait please!"
"Who are you people?" Confusion briefly clouded the woman's face before realization set in. However, she still felt compelled to assert, "I own nothing of value."
"We're not here to steal," Xenia retorted sharply, while I was pacing, scanning the room and finding little of worth.
It made me wonder, "So Jerry drives a... what kind of car is it? Help me out, Xenia."
"It's a recent model Toyota Tundra."
"A Toyota Tundra! Interesting. He's an executive in a big company, yet he can't even afford to buy you a modern TV?" I paused my pacing to address the lady with a mixture of confusion and amazement. "What's your name?"
But it was Xenia who answered, saying, "Renata," while motioning for the woman to remain calm. I wasn't impressed by Xenia's feeble attempt to reassure her. I hadn't made any damn promises to tread lightly. If push came to shove, I'd ensure there were consequences for any resistance.
Tone firm, I pressed, "Renata. Your husband provides a comfortable life in the best part of the city. What brings you out here?"
Renata repeated her question, growing increasingly uneasy. Her voice shuddered. "Who are you people? And if you don't speak up, I'll call the police or something."
Xenia's eyes briefly betrayed her fear. Realizing that if she didn't intervene, I would resort to more aggressive tactics—my hand already inching towards my holster—she rushed to Renata's side. "We're just here to ask a few questions. Jerry has gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, and your son could be at risk. If you cooperate and refrain from mentioning the authorities, we'll leave before nightfall," she implored urgently. "We mean no harm, please."
Locking eyes with me, the butterfly silently conveyed a clear message: no guns, no violence.
Her plea for delicate handling was laughable, given the situation. I wasn't about to tiptoe around just because the woman happened to be married to the man I was after. My plan was simple: interrogate her about her marriage, her husband's dealings, anything useful against Jerry. If she cooperated, she'd earn my mercy. If not, well, I had other ways to persuade her. Maybe even hold her hostage until Jerry saw fit to negotiate with me.
Against my expectations, the dame caught us off guard by rustling up some soup and opening up about everything, thanks to Xenia's smooth talk. It seemed like, for the time being, playing nice was getting us further than throwing our weight around.
I have to say, her cooking wasn't half bad, and I did try to play it cool, striving to act like this was just another day in the office for me.
By 8 PM, we'd unraveled a heap of unsettling truths from Renata, diving deep into Jerry's murky past and exposing some grim realities about their fractured relationship. Renata recounted a troubling incident from months prior, just before their split.
She revealed stumbling upon a hidden compartment in Jerry's study while searching for evidence of his infidelity due to his chronic tardiness. Inside lay a collection of disturbing items and a cryptic journal detailing encounters of sexual assault and violence. When she confronted Jerry, he waved off her concerns, insisting it was nothing but a fictional tale about someone else.
Renata opened up, admitting she was no stranger to such scenarios given her marriage to a journalist. Yet, she confessed that this particular tale had left her feeling deeply unsettled and haunted. To add to the intrigue, Jerry hadn't penned a single word in over two years, proudly embracing his new role as a boss instead of the journalist he once was.
Her tearful question lingered: why would such a personal narrative, told in the first person, be among his writings?
It was a valid point indeed. Rarely do stories cast journalists as perpetrators, do they?
I turned to Xenia, the one with the gift of gab, and asked for her take on the whole mess. And you know what? She actually refused to cast judgment without laying eyes on the evidence first. She demanded to see that journal. I figured it was a lost cause, thinking Renata had likely swiped it before hauling ass, but how wrong was I.
Renata came back with this beat-up old book, saying she'd been tearing through it like a madwoman, desperate to convince herself Jerry wasn't the scumbag he appeared to be. But every time she flipped through those pages, it just confirmed her worst suspicions—that Jerry was keeping a sick diary of his own twisted deeds.
Xenia took a look at it, not me.
And yes, her reaction after flipping was immediate. She pleaded to keep it, astounded by the damning evidence it contained. "Why didn't you report him?" she asked after stashing it away. "This screams 'psycho' louder than a gunshot in the night."
"He's a publisher, not just a journalist," Renata reminded Xenia. "No law enforcement agency would take written accounts seriously once they learn of his profession. He has every way to deny it because the names of the victims are not even mentioned. But I know it's more than one, from the tone and description of them."
Xenia scoffed, and I was damn near floored. I'd always thought the darkest depths were reserved for men like me, lurking in the shadows. But to see a man whose damn duty was to bring down the hammer on the wicked confessing to such darkness, it hit me: you're only a criminal if they catch you. You're only guilty when the whole world knows your sins.
Renata chimed in, suggesting it might just be a random book. "I'm tired of trying to make sense of it," she added. "Hurting myself over and over again, without any recourse. I just want him out of my life, far away from me and my son."
As she got up to load the dishwasher, her breaths came quicker. It was clear the woman was wrecked. She must've realized she'd been with a sicko since day one, only to have his true colors revealed years down the line in such a mundane yet mysterious manner.
It reminded me of Natalie, Amato's wife, and how she lacked the guts to leave after enduring years of her husband's vile deeds. How she ultimately chose to end her torment by her own hand, knowing she stood a better shot in hell with the devil than by trying to expose him. Women hitched to sickos were the real heroes, and while Xenia might not have fully grasped Renata's struggle, I sure as hell did.
"But your name's right there. It's crystal clear, labeled as his wife," Xenia pleaded desperately. "You can't honestly doubt this. It says..." She flipped to a page and recited, "'I'll return home every night to find Renata, my wife,' "she emphasized, "lying on the bed, trying to grab my attention, but it's the thought of being with xxx that fills my heart with joy and puts a smile on my face. I'll cover my wife's naked body because her eagerness to be intimate with me threatens to ruin my mood. I relish in taking what's not mine, revel in the excitement of overpowering xxx... how she pleads for me to stop, screams, scratches at me, and eventually surrenders. It's those memories that keep me alive, and not those of receiving consent—"
"Please, stop," Renata interjected, her hand crashing onto the counter, her face etched with angst and despair. "You can take it. Please. Just don't read it aloud to me."
Acknowledging Renata's request, Xenia turned to me, offering thanks to Renata. As she drew me aside, I caught a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. Maybe she empathized with Renata, but it struck me that she might have found a personal link to the whole mess. After all, Jerry had tried to make a move on her in that same damn office, probably to fuel his sick writings.
Interrupting my train of thoughts, Xenia voiced out the words I'd been thinking. "There must be more of these. If he's truly as depraved as it seems, this is likely just the tip of the iceberg."
In any case, I realized we couldn't afford to play detective. The launch of her book was only a week away. Even if more information lay hidden somewhere, we wouldn't have the time to uncover it and strategize. And I couldn't in good conscience send Xenia back into his presence, especially after hearing the disturbing contents of that book and what he had attempted before.
Instead of getting bogged down by our fucking laundry list of issues, I pressed Renata for the address in Marsala. But she hesitated, going on about how she didn't entirely trust our motives and how she was worried about her kid's safety. Xenia chimed in, telling her to keep our little visit under wraps from Jerry, a caution I already anticipated she would heed. Renata ended up coughing up her phone number and thanking us for trying to nail Jerry's sorry ass.
As we got ready to bail, Xenia lingered by the door, her face a rollercoaster of dread and curiosity. She posed a probing question to Renata after a second, "But why does Jerry believe you would never stand up to him, even knowing about his misdeeds?"
Renata leaned against the door, twirling her hair nervously. After a moment's hesitation, she admitted, "Dependency. If I lose him, I lose my son. And I don't want Jonny growing up with that impression of me."
"Well, it's better for Jonny to have a poor opinion of you than to be influenced by a bad example." I saw sense in Xenia's blunt response, because if my mother had left Pietro earlier, we'd all not have suffered the consequences of his presence in our lives. But I bet separation was more difficult with kids involved.
"Only god knows what they're doing in Marsala right now. Do you?" She asked the woman.
Renata shook her head. "Help me. Please." She broke down and held Xenia, nearly going on her knees. "I don't want to lose Jonny. He's all I've got. And I don't want Jerry near either."
Comprehending her plea for help, spoken loud and clear, I felt a gush of tenacity. It was hands down the most urgent cry for assistance I'd ever heard. It wasn't just about safeguarding the TIF and putting Jerry in his damn place; it was about yanking a mother and her kid from his manipulative claws.