Sergio sets his glass down, gets up and opens a drawer, gets a bowl and fills it with water, sets it down in one corner and puts a second, empty one beside it.

“Why don’t you get her fed. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll cook us dinner then.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, swallowing the rest of the whiskey and setting my glass down before getting to my feet, walking over to where Pepper’s drinking the water. I kneel beside her, my back to Sergio, and pet her. She’s so old, her skin and fur feel oily. I don’t want to think about how much longer she’ll be around.

Sergio sighs, but then he walks out of the kitchen and I assume he’s gone to his study to meet with those men when I hear a door close.

I take a deep breath when he’s gone, then get back up. Taking the bowl, I get Pepper’s dinner then walk back to the counter, take the bottle of whiskey he left behind and pour myself some more. I drink and make my way to the living room.

Tonight, I feel like I have some rights here. Some authority. Because I’m realizing something. Something I’ve been processing since I met him. Something I still don’t quite understand.

I haven’t yet made the connection with what mafia life truly means. Not in the terms of real life. Of my life.

My mind wanders to what might have happened if Sergio hadn’t changed the locks on my borrowed house. Would whoever left the lilies there have broken in? Would someone have been waiting for me inside when I got home? Waiting to do me harm?

No, that’s not it. I don’t think they meant to hurt me. I think they meant to send a message to Sergio.

I’m studying the photos in the living room when I hear the study door open. Sergio’s saying something in Italian. I didn’t realize he spoke Italian, but of course he does. A few minutes later, the two men leave, and Sergio walks into the living room. I turn to face him.

“It was a message for you, wasn’t it? I don’t matter. I’m just a vehicle to get to you, aren’t I?”

He walks toward me but I halt him.

“Answer me, Sergio.”

He considers for a moment, then answers. “Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, I think it might matter.”

His eyes harden a little. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Like you did Professor Dayton?”

He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, and closes the space between us. I don’t step back, but I want to. He takes the glass out of my hand and sets it aside. “I said I’ll take care of it.”