by Ravenna Tate
He drank it in tea, and he had a bottle of lotion made from the stuff on his desk. The tea was out because Digger didn’t want to have to try to pour the shit down the guy’s throat. The bottle had a hand-written label on it, instructing him to “apply in very small doses to the skin for stomach upset or joint pain.”
Digger found it extremely ironic that a guy who resold stolen goods for a living had stomach issues. Stupid punk. After he slathered the lotion all over the guy’s face and neck, Digger replaced the bottle and closed the laptop.
It was tempting to go through the computer, or take it, but this needed to look like an accidental overdose. A quick Google search had assured Digger that doing what he’d just done with that amount of lotion would prove fatal.
Waiting around for the guy to go into respiratory arrest and die was the most satisfying part of this. Digger removed his gloves, turning them inside out as he did, and used a fresh pair in his pocket to put them into a plastic bag he’d brought along. Later, he would dump the bag and the second set of gloves into separate trash cans in Central Park.
For now, he stood a few feet away from the body and waited, his dick growing hard as the guy’s skin turned pale blue and he twitched a bit. The fact that he fell face first onto the closed laptop when he finally died was so perfect, it made Digger long to jerk himself off, right there. But that might leave behind DNA, even if he used gloves and was careful.
He went back outside, glancing around to make sure no one was near, and then removed the gloves before sliding into the sedan he’d borrowed from a friend. Once there, he used an anti-bacterial soap to clean his hands, even though those were now said not to be good to use. He was taking no chances, just the same.
It was a bright, cold winter day. Perfect for a stroll in the park. Digger smiled as he drove toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He felt alive and charged with energy. Even a small job like this one gave him the biggest thrills of his life.
And now, on top of all this, he had the one thing he’d wanted for as long as he could remember. Emmi. Yes. Life was perfect.
Chapter Twelve
“Emmi, what aren’t you telling me about this guy?”
Tucked into a corner booth at a restaurant in SoHo, Emmi had believed she’d be safe with Leslie, a friend she’d known since middle school. Now, not so much. She could not, under any circumstances, reveal the truth about Digger. Thinking she could seek out Leslie’s advice without giving away too much had proven to be the stupidest plan ever.
“Nothing. He’s a family friend that I’ve never been interested in until now. I just want to know if you think that’s because Sam is gone, or if it’s only the sex, or what the hell is going on with me.”
Leslie drained her glass of iced tea and signaled for their server, who looked at them like they were an unwelcome interruption to his chit-chat with a curly-headed blond guy. “Look, I’ve only seen you with Sam. Maybe if I met this guy? I don’t know.”
What harm could that do? Should she text Digger and ask if he was free for lunch? While the server went to get iced tea to refill Leslie’s glass, Emmi sent a quick text. It had been three days since he’d left the house the morning after the roads were cleared, and she’d received no fewer than two dozen text messages from him. All short but sweet, with funny emoji to accompany the words.
While she was flattered by the attention, he had also given her time and space. He’d left that morning after telling her that he would give her a few days to think about everything, but to plan on having dinner at his place this coming Friday. And he’d made sure to tell her she’d be spending the night. Possibly the entire weekend.
“Who did you just text?”
Leslie’s question pulled Emmi from her thoughts. “Digger.”
“Why?”
“To see if he can join us so you can meet him. It’ll be hours before we get our damn food, anyway.” This restaurant wasn’t known for quick service.
“Christ, I didn’t mean now.”
“Why not? I’m having dinner at his place Friday. I need to know before then.”
Leslie raised her brows. “He’s cooking for you?”
“He didn’t say. Might just be ordering something.”
“Well, if he cooks it, he’s a keeper in my book. Shit. If you don’t want him, let me have a go at it.”
Right. Under different circumstances, Emmi would have been fine with that. But Leslie hadn’t heard Digger talk about their destiny, or how he’d never wanted any woman but her. This would be a perfect litmus test for her own feelings. See if she had any clearer answers while they were with a long-time friend instead of her parents. She already knew how they felt.
Her phone pinged with an incoming text.
“What does it say?”
Emmi grinned. “He’s on his way.”
“Holy fuck.” Leslie drained half her glass of iced tea. “Does he have a brother, or a cousin, by any chance?”
It was a good thing Emmi had chosen not to take a sip of her own drink because she’d have choked on it from laughing. She texted Digger the link to the menu and asked him if they could order for him, because the food took forever to arrive.
After a moment, he texted her back and told what he wanted, so they flagged down their disagreeable server once more and gave him Digger’s order. He didn’t look thrilled that they were expecting a third, and made a silly show out of having to set another place. She decided to try to thaw the ice, since they’d be here a while.
“Did you have a nice Christmas and New Year’s?”
He looked surprised that anyone had bothered asking. “No, not really. My boyfriend dumped me.”
“I’m very sorry. What about the guy you were talking to a moment ago?’
“Not a chance. He’s taken. He was just being polite.”
“That sucks. I was recently dumped, too. He took off for California about a month ago. I was with him for twelve years.”
“And I was home alone on New Year’s Eve,” said Leslie. “Couldn’t even muster up the energy to walk to Times Square.”
“Why California?” asked the server.
“To join a fucking band.”
“He gave you up for a band?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“I’m in law school. Not giving that up for dreams that aren’t mine.”
“Good for you! So who’s coming to join you for lunch?” His eyes lit up. “A new boyfriend, possibly?”
“He believes he is, yes. I’m not sure, which is why I want my friend here to meet him.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll watch, too, and let you know what I think.”
“Thanks.”
After he left to take care of another table, Leslie gave her an astonished glance. “How the hell do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Read people like that?”
“I didn’t read him. I just figured I’d ask a polite, fairly neutral question, and see where it led.”
When Digger arrived, he looked absolutely delighted to see her. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes danced with mischief. As soon as he took his seat, he leaned over and kissed Emmi, right on the lips, stopping just short of shoving his tongue inside. Heat spread up her neck and covered her face, but not from embarrassment. Maybe Leslie was right? Even if he didn’t cook for her on Friday, Digger was a keeper.
“Hi, I’m Daniel Basile, but everyone calls me Digger.” He extended his hand toward Leslie and gave her a huge smile.
Leslie stared at him like she’d never seen a man before. She shook his hand and mumbled her name, but if Emmi hadn’t known it to begin with, she wouldn’t have been able to understand her. Safe to say her friend was bowled over by Digger.
“Now ask him why they call him ‘Digger’.”
“What?” Leslie laughed her nervous laugh. “Oh, Yeah. Okay. Why do they call you that?”
“Christ,” said Emmi. “Get a grip.”
Leslie laugh
ed again while her face turned a deep shade of red.
“They call me that because I like to dig holes.” He winked at Emmi, and she suddenly wished they were alone because she was fucking horny as hell.
“But seriously, I’ve had the nickname since I was ten. It was the first time my grandfather let me drive his backhoe. He was with me, of course, but I got to dig a really big hole to bury a dead cow on his land.”
“So, the hole digging is true,” said Emmi. She’d never heard this story before, which meant her parents didn’t know it. He was sharing things with her from his childhood that he hadn’t told anyone else.
“Yes, I suppose it is. Although I haven’t operated a backhoe in a long time.”
“What do you do for a living, Digger?”
“I’m a personal assistant.”
Emmi put her hands in her lap and dug her nails into her palms. The lie had tumbled out of his mouth as easily as if he’d told Leslie the sky was blue. She forced a neutral expression to her face, but could do nothing about the way her bottom lip trembled slightly.
“To who?”
He kills people for a living.
“Multiple people. Mostly CEOs who need sensitive issues handled quietly.”
“That sounds mysterious.”
He’s a hired hitman for the Mob!
His laugh was easy and relaxed. “Not at all. It’s quite routine.”
Their appetizers finally arrived, including the one Digger had ordered. Their server gave Emmi a discreet thumbs-up that she smiled at only for show. Sure, on the surface, Digger was the perfect catch. Handsome, charming, easygoing, and he made his job sound like he got paid a lot of money to run errands for executives.
This had been too easy, and Emmi should have seen it coming. Leslie would tell her to forget Sam and go for it. No doubt about it. Her friend could barely hang onto her fork as she laughed at all Digger’s jokes and asked him endless personal questions. He fielded them like a pro, making the ruse even more apparent.
This was what her life would be like if she was with him. The same as it was now. She avoided answering too many questions about her family, but when forced to, she lied. She held secrets in her heart that would get her killed if she revealed them to the wrong people. She knew things about the world of organized crime that would give most people she knew outside that world nightmares.
So then, what would be so different if she gave Digger what he wanted? The fact that she’d busted her ass in law school with the express purpose of making her way out of this lifestyle, that’s what. And, the fact that great sex wasn’t enough to sustain a long-term relationship.
What if she’d been looking at this dilemma half-assed backward the entire time? It’s not as if she had to kill anyone. What if this wasn’t really a dilemma at all, but merely her convoluted way of using her relationship with Sam as a way out of the lifestyle? A way she was no longer sure she wanted to take?
How in the hell had her mother reconciled this? Her family wasn’t involved in this world. She must have known what her father did for a living before she married him.
Emmi had never asked her because she had assumed she’d be given clichéd answers, but maybe she was wrong? Perhaps the person she should be talking to about this was the one who’d been right there all along?
Chapter Thirteen
When she got home that evening, she mentally steeled herself and asked to speak with her mother after dinner, alone. Once they were settled in the small living room and the door was closed, Emmi finally asked.
“I need you to tell me about when you met Papa. When you found out who he was and what his family did.”
Her mother smiled and settled back in the armchair. “I’ve been wondering when we’d have this conversation. I ran into him, literally. I was coming out of a store in town, and he wasn’t watching where he was going. Apologizing led to talking for half an hour, and that led to dinner that same evening.”
“That’s a cute story, but when did you find out what he did?”
“Once I knew his last name and told my parents, I discovered his questionable past. My father had him investigated, and things didn’t quite match up. So I asked him, and he told me.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
Emmi leaned forward. “And? What did you think?”
“I thought it didn’t matter. I fell in love with your father before we left the sidewalk in front of the store where we met, Emmi.”
Of all the things her mother could have told her, that was not what she’d expected to hear. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course I’m not kidding.”
“But how did you reconcile it? How did you keep from believing if you were with him, you’d burn in hell for accepting the things he’s done?”
“Do you really think it’s any different than hostile takeovers? Or finding loopholes in a case so you win it in court, even if your client is guilty?”
Jesus. “You can hardly compare either of those scenarios with a conscious decision to kill someone.”
“Are you so sure about that? Hostile takeovers put people out of jobs. They ruin families and force them to drastically alter their way of life within a short time, often without the necessary resources to do so. You grew up rich. You haven’t got a clue what it means to live paycheck to paycheck, or not to have any paycheck coming in.”
“So did you.”
“Yes, but your father did not. He’s the one you should be talking to. Ask him what your grandfather’s childhood was like, and then you might understand why hanging out with the gangster kids down the block was the only way he could survive.”
Emmi swallowed hard. She’d never thought about it from that perspective before.
“And let’s talk about attorneys. Suppose when you become one, you decide to work for a criminal defense firm.”
When she opened her mouth to protest, her mother put up a hand. “Let me finish. You have a client who is a physician. This physician is guilty of malpractice, but you find a weakness in the prosecution’s case, and the jury doesn’t convict him because of it. Because of your skill in court. But there’s a dead child, and now that family will never have justice for their loss. Who really wins in that instance? Is getting your client off the hook for murder better because it was your job to try to do it?”
“My job would be to defend him, not get him out of a murder conviction.”
“So would you not use the weakness, then? If he found out you knew about it and didn’t use it, you could end up disbarred for not properly defending your client. You would definitely be fired for not using it.”
Well fuck me sideways. Her mother had just nailed her. Emmi smiled. “You should have been a law school professor.”
“I’ve been paying attention when you talk about your classes, Emmi.”
“Okay. But you could have married anyone. Not necessarily a man who is in Mergers and Acquisitions, or defends guilty criminals for a living. There are tons of honest professions out there.”
“Yes, there are. But I didn’t fall in love with a man who is in one of them. I fell in love with your father.”
“I’m not in love with Digger.”
“Are you sure?”
The question, asked without any hint of emotion or judgment, and spoken in such a soft voice, hit Emmi with the force of a hurricane. Was she in love? Did it show? Had she always been drawn to Digger, but hadn’t acted on it because of Sam? Was she using his lifestyle as an excuse to avoid her feelings?
Suddenly, the upcoming dinner on Friday took on way more significance than any time she’d spent with Digger so far.
****
By the time Emmi drove to Digger’s apartment Friday night, the conversation with her mother had played over and over in her mind. In addition to that, Leslie had, as predicted, told her if she didn’t marry Digger next week she was an idiot. She reminded Leslie that he hadn’t asked, to which Leslie advised her to ask him.
Digger would love that. But Emmi wasn’t here tonight to talk about marriage. She was here to see if the magic held up on his home turf. There was no one here to put on a show for, or to watch for a reaction. It was only the two of them.
The smell of peppers and clam sauce hit her as soon as he opened the door. “My God,” she said, taking a deep inhale. “You really are cooking it yourself.” Emmi recognized the lingering scent of olive oil in the air. She’d know that smell anywhere.
“Of course I am. Come on in.”
She’d never been to Digger’s apartment. He lived like a king, but that didn’t bother her. So did her entire family. His condo was on Riverside Boulevard, on the Upper West Side, and when he’d bought it, it had boasted nine bedrooms, seven bathrooms, views from every direction, and a terrace complete with a private, outdoor pool. The place was almost as large as her parents’ home.
“This is incredible, Digger,” she said, as he gave her the tour. Even though the condo had a dedicated library on the main floor, he’d turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into an office. He’d also made a workout room out of the two downstairs bedrooms, by knocking down the wall and combining them.
“That still leaves five bedrooms, plus yours. What do you plan to do with all of those extra rooms?”
“This one,” he waved a hand to usher her inside, “is for my antique weapons collection.” Emmi stood in the center of the room and slowly turned around to get the full effect. She’d never seen so many swords or crossbows together, outside of a museum.
“Interesting hobby.”
“Well, I am in the business.” He winked.
“Ever use any of them?’ Were they really having this conversation?
“No. These are strictly for show. My preferred method includes not leaving any obvious traces of the weapon I used.”
A shiver ran down her spine, more because she was genuinely curious now than from what he’d said. “How do you do it then?”
