Demand (10 page)

“A bar can be many things,” he says, and pauses for obvious effect. “As can a person.”

“It's confusing,” I comment, pretending not to notice he's talking about me, and has somehow managed to nail my fear that I am not who I think I am.

“Not to Italians,” he replies, “but you, Eleana, are another story. You are one big question mark.”

“I'm not even a small question mark to myself anymore. I know who I am and why I'm here—as do you, since I've shared the details with you.”

“But that's not the real picture, is it?”

Alarm bells go off in my head, but I don't react beyond a curious furrowed brow. “I'm confused by that comment. What does that mean?”

“Ciao!”

I silently curse the bad timing of the bald, middle-aged waiter with a short salt-and-pepper beard who's just arrived at our table. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I say. “I'm American, so whatever is most popular here in Rome.”

“Cappuccino is what Italy is famous for,” he supplies.

“Then cappuccino it is.”

The man gives me a smile and a nod before he turns to Gallo, who speaks to him in Italian. The man replies and gives me a curious look, then departs, leaving me frowning in his wake.

“Why not take your coat off and stay awhile?” Gallo challenges.

“I'm chilly.”

“Nerves do that.”

“I thought nerves made people warm and clammy?”

He laces his fingers together on top of the table. “Have you remembered how you ended up in that alleyway?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I say, glad to have this start out with something I can answer honestly. “I remember basic things. The rest is still cloudy.”

“What things are ‘basic'?”

“That answer changes often,” I say. “For instance, I won't remember a particular food I like or hate, until it's presented to me. But when it is, it's like a light switch being flipped. I'm a puzzle that is slowly filling in the pieces.”

“And where does Kayden fit into that puzzle?”

“If you have questions about Kayden, Detective, ask Kayden.”

“I asked a question about you, not him. Where does he fit into
your
puzzle?”

“At this point, I'm figuring out just about
everything
in my life.”

“Including him?”

“Of course,” I say, because it's what he needs to hear, not because it's what I feel. What I truly feel is connected to Kayden, right with him in ways this man cannot change.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure? How can someone with amnesia be sure of anything?” And yet, for reasons I can't explain, sitting here with Kayden's enemy, I find that nothing in me is unsure about Kayden. And with that feeling, any worry I had last night, that my memories could turn me against him, evaporates.

He studies me for several awkwardly heavy moments. “And yet you can't seem to understand that a casual stroll down memory lane in a bad neighborhood could be dangerous. Even deadly.”

“I have no idea what that means, either. You're talking in code. I'm a direct person, Detective. If you have something to say to me, please just say it.”

“All right, then. Kayden wasn't in that alleyway going to the damn supermarket, as he claimed. He was after something, and he ended up with you. So either he's helping you hide something—”

“Hide something?” I demand indignantly.

“. . . or he's after something he thinks you can give him,” he continues. “If the latter is true, what do you think will happen when he finally gets it?”

I want to lean away, to withdraw, so I flatten my hands on the table and lean forward. “I know why you hate him.”

“What happens when he gets what he wants?”

“How do you know I'm not what he wants?” I challenge.

“I have no doubt he wants you, but my question is why?”

“Insulting me isn't going to win you points here.”

“I don't want points,” he bites out. “I want justice.”

“You want revenge,” I say. “And you want it to the point that it's illogical and scary. Do you even care if you hurt other people to hurt him?”

“I care if
he
hurts other people.”

“And yet you're hurting Giada by using her.”

“You're very hung up on Giada. She clearly worries you.”

There's an implication of more than sisterly worry that I decide is going no place good, so I sidestep it. “Why am I here, Detective?”

He reaches down to his seat and sets a file on the table. “It's time you understand who, and what, he is.” He opens the file and sets a picture in front of me, of a man in his mid-forties. “Do you know who this is?”

“I do not.”

“He's my boss.” He slides the picture down the table but still facing me, setting another one in front of me. This one is of a younger man, mid-thirties maybe, with dark, curly hair. “What about this man? Do you know him?”

“No,” I answer honestly.

“His name is Raul Martinez, and he's the leader of a Mexican cartel that's in bed with the Italian mafia.”

I don't react to this information, but he's too close for comfort. “Why are you telling me this?”

His answer is to flip over another photo that turns my stomach—and it's all I can do not to react. “What about him? Do you know him?”

“No. I don't know any of these people.”

“Niccolo Bulgari,” he supplies. “The leader of the Italian mafia. And do you know what all of these men have in common?” His reply is to start turning over photos of Kayden with each of the men. “Kayden is what they have in common.”

I glance at the photos and then at Gallo. “Do you know all of these men?”

“It's my job to know them.”

“So those men all have you in common as well, right?”

His jaw clenches and he turns over another photo. “This man,” he says, indicating a tall, thin man in an impressive suit, “is a politician believed to have killed his wife.” He shoves a photo of Kayden talking to the man in front of me. “That was taken right after she died,” he continues. “For all we know, Kayden killed her.”

“Kayden didn't kill her,” I snap, not sure what the explanation is for this and wishing I knew.

“And you know this how?”

“Because I know.”

“Because he told you.”

The waiter chooses that moment to set our coffees in front of us, and it's all I can do to murmur a “thank you” and listen to Gallo do the same before we are left alone again. Gallo shoves aside his coffee and I do the same. “Because he told you,” he repeats, and it's a statement, not a question.

“No,” I say. “There was nothing to tell me.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because I've gotten to know Kayden,” I say, not even blinking before I reply.

“Then you know that Kayden is a Treasure Hunter who will do anything for money.”

“You forget the part where I said I've gotten to know him—so I know that statement is false. And murder is not just anything, nor is treasure hunting
murder
.”

“I'm quite clear on the meaning of the word
murder
, as is Kayden, I assure you.” He narrows those shrewd eyes on me. “Just how involved in his definition of
anything
are you?”

“Enough to know your accusations are completely misplaced, and driven by bitterness that's eating you alive.”

“Accusations are only misplaced if untrue, and mine are not.”

“Accusations exist,” I countered, “because they're without merit and fact, which you clearly don't have or you'd have arrested him already.”

“You are quick-witted for a woman with amnesia,
Eleana.”

The overuse and emphasis of my fake name doesn't feel accidental, nor is the bite to my voice as I say, “Amnesia doesn't mean stupid.”

“Right. Just . . . absentminded. And as eager as you are to fill in your blank spaces, I'm surprised you haven't asked about those activities that I mentioned on the phone.”

“On cue to please you,” I say, steeling myself for a bullet. “What activities?”

“Those that include a man who consorts with the mafia and a drug cartel. That,
Eleana
, means you are, as well. I'd have thought that would disturb you, yet you didn't even blink when I mentioned it.”

“My knowledge of the mafia and cartels comes from movies like
The
Godfather
. And if anything I've seen is true, they're terrifying. I've also seen enough of Kayden's world to know the difference.”

“Another of those amnesia anomalies. You remember
The Godfather
but not how you got to Italy.”

“I told you—”

“You have a selective memory. I get it. And since you have an apparently selective understanding of the English language, despite using it better than I do, let's go back to visuals.” He grabs the picture he showed me of Kayden standing with Niccolo and points at Niccolo. “Mafia king.” He points at Kayden. “The man in your bed. They're laughing. They're friends.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” I say. “You, it seems, just throw daggers at yours.”

“‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' Interesting concept there. Since you've gotten to see inside Kayden's world, maybe you can enlighten me on how that saying applies to the people around him.” He sets the picture of Kayden with his boss in front of me. “Is he one of Kayden's friends or his enemy?” He replaces the photo with the one of Kayden and Niccolo again. “What about him? Because to me, it's hard to tell where his allegiances are. And you know why? Because his only real devotion is to himself. Kayden Wilkens is an opportunist.”

“Says the man using a young, grieving girl to exact revenge.”

He gathers the photos and stuffs them back inside the folder, then crosses his arms in front of him and levels me a hard stare. “I think you know a lot of things you aren't telling me.” He leans forward again. “A good fuck does not make a good man.”

Anger knifes through me. I stand, and seeming to anticipate my action, he stands as well, his folder in hand. “We're done,” I say.

He studies me several moments that feel eternal. I'm not sure what he wishes to find, or if he's simply trying to intimidate me, but the result is a twist of his lips. “For now.” He slaps a few euros on the table and starts to walk away.

“Wait,” I say quickly, and he backs up a step and gives me another arched brow. “Leave Giada alone.”

“Not until she's out of the castle. Same story with you, Eleana. Because what you can't see for the blinders you're wearing is that I care, and you need someone like me.”

“Don't try to make this about me and Giada, when it's about you and Kayden. Leave us out of this.”

“He hasn't, so I can't.”

“So you'll hurt us to hurt him? Is that really who you are?”

“Maybe I don't show it in the way you want me to, but I'm not a man of vengeance. I'm a man of the badge. I'm protecting you.”

“By treating me like a criminal?”

“I know people. I read them and I know how to get their attention. Had I pleasantly warned you that you were sleeping with the enemy, you would have dismissed me. But you aren't dismissing me. You're thinking about what I've told you now. I see it in your eyes, even if you don't see it in yourself.
I am
protecting you. Call me when you figure that out. I will be here for you.” He starts walking again, and I don't stop him, a memory of my father filling my mind.

I'm standing at the window of our living room and there are two men in official Army uniforms, though my father is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, home for a rare month. I watch as one of the men steps close to my father and they square off.

I hold my breath, afraid they'll come to blows, but abruptly they step away from each other. The two uniformed men turn and start walking away. My father watches them get into the Army jeep, and I run to the door and open it, standing on the porch and waiting. It's not until that jeep is driving away that he walks toward me, his jaw set hard, his body stiff. He climbs the porch steps, and I don't ask a question, but rather, wait for whatever lesson he will deliver, because there is always a lesson.

He stops in front of me. “Never judge a man by his uniform or his attitude, good or bad. The truth is in his eyes and his actions. Never forget that, baby girl.”

“So were those men good guys or bad guys?”

“Signora? Do you need something else?”

I blink and bring our waiter into view. “The ladies' room?” I ask, struggling to bring myself back to the present. He motions to a corner sign that reads
TOILET
, and I murmur, “Thank you,” and head in that direction, keeping my pace until I've traveled down a small hallway to the one-person bathroom.

Inside, I lock the door and sink against it, inhaling and letting it out, affected more by the memory of my father than I am by Gallo. That day was—I think—about six months before he died. Before he was murdered. Who were those men? Why were they there?

And what did Gallo say that triggered the memory? Was it his reference to murder? What the hell was that thing about Kayden and a politician and murder?

I have looked into Kayden's eyes. He wouldn't kill someone for money. And damn it, I played this all wrong. I didn't find out anything Giada has revealed to Gallo, nor did I find out who inside the Hunters is betraying Kayden. Maybe I should have pretended to doubt Kayden. No. No, that would have just empowered Gallo even more.

A piece of paper slides under the door. I frown and pick it up, opening it to read:
I know.
That's it. Just,
I know.
Nothing more. Nothing less. A chill runs down my spine and I open the door to find the hallway empty. Grinding my teeth, I whisper, “Your actions define you, Gallo. You really are an asshole.”