Chapter 67 The Sweetest Sting
Matteo
The manager came back to the table with a nervous smile and a folded slip of paper in his hand.
“I just wanted to say again how sorry we are for the inconvenience, Mr. Genovese. Your bill has been taken care of, of course—on the house.”
I waved a hand, brushing the words away like they were smoke. “Nonsense. I’m not holding any grudges over what happened. As I said before, she’s just… distraught. She deserves a little grace.”
He blinked, confused by the contradiction, and I reached for my wallet.
Valentina shifted beside me, sensing the play. Good girl.
I peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills and set them on the table. “Close out the check. Whatever’s left is Maria’s tip.”
The manager stared like he’d just been handed a stack of forbidden relics. “This is… sir, this is excessive.”
I looked him in the eye, calm, deliberate. “No. This is kindness. This is generosity. Just because I was no longer able to keep Maria in my employ doesn’t mean I don’t want her to succeed. I want her to take care of herself. Truly.”
The man’s whole body softened. It was honestly pathetic how easy it was. “Why yes, that’s… very kind of you indeed. Remarkable, really.”
I stood and offered my hand to Valentina, curling my fingers around hers. “It was nice meeting you,” I said, my voice velvet over steel. “Despite the circumstances.”
He beamed like he’d been knighted.
We left the table, Rosco trailing behind with his usual lazy strut, and climbed into the SUV parked out front. The second the doors shut, the temperature inside shifted.
Rosco exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Boss, I gotta be honest with you. That took everything I had not to gag watching you spew all that honey-dripping bullshit back there.”
I smirked. “I’m very good at what I do. You know this.”
Valentina didn’t speak—just watched me with those hawk eyes, trying to trace the lines between mask and man. Smart woman.
“When Maria is reported missing,” I said, settling into the leather seat, “the cops are going to come sniffing around. They’ll learn about the altercation, sure. But then they’ll also learn it was a fabrication. No assault. No grudges. No motive. Hell, the guy didn’t even want her fired. Left a five-hundred-dollar tip.”
Rosco whistled. “And this is why you’re the boss.”
Valentina finally spoke, voice smooth but curious. “You said we had a new afternoon directive. What does that entail?”
I turned my head and smiled at her, slow and sharp. “You’ll see, my dear wife.”
Her brows lifted, but she didn’t push.
Not yet.
“For now,” I said, glancing at my watch, “we wait. I heard Maria tell another server she’s off in an hour.”
“Oof.” Rosco leaned back. “If we’ve got an hour to kill, can we at least get some ice cream?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a child.”
Rosco grinned. “Who doesn’t love ice cream?”
Valentina smirked. “He’s got a point.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth betrayed me. “Fine. One hour. Then we move.”
We parked at the Westport Mall a few minutes later. Public place. Cameras everywhere. People with phones. Just what I wanted.
I handed Valentina a shopping bag from the backseat and gave her a pointed look. “Hold this like you just bought it.”
She didn’t ask questions—smart. Rosco made a beeline for the nearest kiosk like a five-year-old, ordering the largest waffle cone they had. Vanilla, of all things. He licked it obnoxiously while we strolled through the first level of the mall like any average couple with their idiot friend in tow.
I made sure we passed every security camera in the place. Escalators. Storefronts. Even paused in front of a jewelry shop so Valentina could lean in and pretend to admire the display.
“Two more minutes,” I muttered as we reached the food court. “Then we vanish.”
She nodded subtly.
On the far side of the food court, tucked between a frozen yogurt stand and a nail salon, was a maintenance corridor—marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ But I’d already made arrangements. The door clicked open as we approached, thanks to a little gift I slipped one of the janitors last week.
We ducked inside.
Rosco stuffed the last of his cone into his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Back to business, I guess.”
The corridor twisted through the bowels of the building—no cameras, no staff at this hour. It spat us out into a forgotten corner of the parking structure where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach.
There, waiting in the shadows, was a beat-up gray van that looked like it hadn’t passed inspection since Bush was in office.
I slid into the driver’s seat. Valentina climbed in back. Rosco closed the side door and tapped twice on the roof.
We pulled out exactly three minutes later, unnoticed. No cameras tracked us. No witnesses glanced our way. And forty minutes after that, we were parked two blocks from Maria’s apartment building, engine idling.
“She should be arriving right about… now,” I said, checking my watch. “Give it a minute.”
Rosco pulled out his phone, scanning the building entrance through the cracked window. “There she is. Purple coat, same cheap bag.”
She headed east, cutting through a narrow alleyway like she always did—quicker route to the bus stop.
Perfect. I hit the gas. We turned the corner smooth as silk, then cut left—right in front of her just as she stepped off the curb.
She jumped back, startled.
Too late.
I pulled into the alley and stopped hard.
Before she could react, Rosco slid the side door open and stepped out. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said casually, like they were old friends passing each other at brunch.
Maria’s eyes went wide. Then she turned to run. But Rosco was already behind her.
A muffled yelp. A thud. Then silence.
No one saw. No one screamed. Just another van in a sea of rusted city ghosts.