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Frank had antipasto, gnocchi, beef bracciole, zucchini, and a glass of chianti. The food was good, but overpriced, with lousy service that included QR code menus. This wasn’t the kind of dining experience that deserved to be such a destination; it was the ghost of one, still being trotted out like the real thing until the profit margin between expectation and reality ceased to pay out. Then, the whole operation would be liquidated. Burnt down for the insurance money, most likely. And Rico Toscani would be left with nothing. Another blood-bag drained dry by Mob mosquitos.

That thought didn’t hold Frank’s attention, though. It had happened before, countless times, and would happen again many more. Frank could only kill so many of the parasites. He had resigned himself to it. The bleed would go on. At least for today.

No, what he thought of—as surely as if she were across the table, eating dinner with him—was Bella.

He didn’t feel much. Didn’t feel anything, usually. The closest he came was when he went into action.

There were days when the rage felt like it would overwhelm him; on other days, the sorrow. But when he was going into battle, he could drown the sorrow in rage and turn it outwards… smother the flame in the pain of others, branding them as he’d been marked, purging himself of feelings too immense to go through his burnt out mind.

The result wasn’t exactly an emotion. It was a feeling of being of use. He’d been worthless to his family, a nothing in the cold calculation of the universe. None of his will, none of his feelings, nothing of him was of any service in preventing their deaths. But when the smell of cordite was thick in his nostrils and his eyes were stung by gunsmoke, Frank knew he was making a difference. He was at his best, he was doing something—it was life, striving and keenly felt.

And being with Bella had been like that. All of him had gone into the wanting of her and the possession of her. There’d been a need in him that pumped through his heart’s blood, flowed in his veins. When he’d taken her, something of Bella—her submission, her pleasure, something that was only hers and only for him—it had burned in his brain and been wired through his nerves. He still felt it. He imagined a Viking fresh from raiding some castle, pilfered gold and jewelry cool on his berserker-red skin, and that was the only comparison he could make.

It was a delight to make her his… and an admission of her worth. What other woman had he desired like this? None since Maria. It wasn’t sex he wanted. It was her. And even now, he wanted more of her.

The thought that he could go back to the hangar and have her—that she might be begging for that very thing right now—was all but intoxicating. He needed control. Because as pleasant as she was, she couldn’t become a distraction. He might want her, but he needed to kill the Beluccis, the Scagliones, everyone that helped them in their rape of the people under their influence. If he allowed this thing with Bella to grow, it would interfere with the kill. Nothing could stop the kill. He had to stay razor-sharp no matter how hard it was to deny himself. The kill was paramount.

The waiter came by. Frank noted his attire: black slacks and a white shirt, with a dark vest and bowtie. Just the thing to make even a teenager look presentable. “Enjoying the meal, Mr. Scarpetta?”

“Absolutely. Was this frozen?”

“No sir, we make our food with fresh ingredient.”

“But you have a refrigerator, right? One of those walk-in coolers, like a meat locker?”

“Well, yes,” the waiter admitted. “But it’s just to keep the ingredients from spoiling. It’s not like we stick our food in a microwave.”

Frank nodded. “Of course. Can I smoke in here?”

“No sir, I’m afraid not.”

“Mind if I have one outside while you get the check?”

The waiter’s eyes darted about as he vacillated: worried that Frank would dash, but worried too about a small tip if he offended the customer. “I suppose that would be fine.”

Frank gave him a smile. “Relax. I might want to bring a girl here sometime.” He tossed the waiter his keys. “Give me those back when I sign the check.”

There was no need to stress the boy out, after all. He had breakouts enough as it was.

Frank went outside, planted a cigarette between his teeth, and lit up. He’d smoked when he was a kid, given it up in the service, taken up the pipe when he’d left. Now the raw nicotine screamed into his lungs, reawakening old pleasures, old instincts. He stretched and began a leisurely stroll through the garden, smoking through the coffin nail with the indolent sensuousness of a man who didn’t know where his next would come from.

Life expectancy was a joke. The only way for him to live was not knowing what would kill him. The only point in refraining was to have a little more stamina in the heat of battle.

He wondered if, had she not passed out, Bella would’ve liked a cigarette.

Above the restaurant, smoke from a chimney hung in the air like an old exclamation point—surprise fading into acceptance. The chimney outside, the brick oven inside. That, Frank thought, was how to do it. He kept up his walk. There was no obvious way up onto the roof: not even a trellis. That would be too convenient. There was a ladder built into the wall, but it was covered by a locked grate to keep people—himself included—from climbing it. But Frank had been in situations like this before.

It was after the lunch rush but far before dinner. The garden was abandoned. Summer heat keeping people indoors. Frank walked up to the ladder and drew a pair of wire cutters from his pocket. He made a snip here, a snip there, burning down the cigarette clenched in his teeth. In a matter of minutes, it was done. Frank tried out the first few cuts by kicking at the severed links. They gave, and he was able to get a foothold on the hole in the grate. That would do it. The building wasn’t too tall—maybe a story and a half, with the steepled roof. Frank returned the wire cutters to his pocket and walked back, gratified that the cuts weren’t at all evident from even a few feet away.

He went back inside, traded a signed check for his keys, and left a big tip.

Frank didn’t think the waiter would be working here too much longer.

***

When Bella came back to herself, she realized she was drooling. She was back in her bed, the chain around her waist. She got a hand around it and gave it a tug. After some give, it grew taut and told her it was attached to the floor again. Bella let it go with relief. Being leashed meant there was no point in trying to escape. Which was good, because she didn’t feel much able to move.

As she laid there, worn out and satisfied all at once, a nagging little nothing managed to wade through her subconscious until it finally got to be a something. Was her birth control still working? She’d lost track of how long she’d been captive and couldn’t think up how long her daily pill lasted at any rate. And he damn sure hadn’t put on a condom before all that.

She doubted Frank was unsafe—well, not that way. He just didn’t seem the type to pick up someone at a bar and do, well, anything. But it wasn’t like Bella was old. She could still have kids.

Clinically, she reached down and felt herself out. She’d been wet, but she wasn’t wet-wet. Bella could tell the difference. Frank had used her, but only so much. At the final step of the journey, he’d denied her. She felt cheated. A fuck like that and the guy didn’t come? It was unbelievable!

It bothered her until Frank finally came in to bring Bella her meal and clean out her bucket. “You didn’t come in me,” she accused him.

Frank took her bucket over to the mop sink. He emptied it out and ran the tap to wash it. “You didn’t make me come,” he retorted, draining the bucket of water to bring it back.

“Bullshit. You got your ashes hauled good, lupacchiotto.”

Frank turned his head like a clock-hand ticking. “Good enough, I suppose. When you weren’t sleeping on the job.”

“I get a little bored of missionary position.”

“You must be happy then. I’m not boring you now.”

Bella made a face. “The Trattoria. Are you going there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re going to kill them all?”

“Eventually.”

“And what happens if they kill you?”

Frank shrugged. “Someone’s probably cancelled my life insurance policy by now—”

Bella rattled the chain. “I mean what happens to me?”

He offered her a wan smile. “You’ll move on. In time.”

“Fuori dalle palle! Non prendermi per il culo, bastardo! Culona inchiavabile! Giramento di palle!”

Frank turned to leave.

“Hey!”

Frank kept walking.

“Frank!”

He stopped. Turned around. “What’s the matter? Run out of Italiano to use on me?”

“When you’re done… you don’t have to stay away, just because I’m here. You can come see me. I won’t yell at you.” She crossed her hands behind her back as if to hide the fists they had been. “At least, I’ll try not to.”