Chapter 9
In the underworld, respect was physical currency. You did not bow. You did not flinch. And you certainly did not kneel. But when Tessa released another quiet, broken sob over a ruined piece of day-old meat, something inside the rigid structure of Zo’s authority cracked. Slowly, he crouched. His custom Italian wool trousers touched the damp, dirty mudroom floor. Tessa flinched violently. Her arms flew over her head as though she expected him to strike her. “I’ll clean it,” she babbled. “I have bleach in my locker. I’ll sanitize the concrete. Please, Mr. Rossi—” “Stop.” Zo did not shout. The word was quiet and steady. It cut through her panic. He reached forward. Not toward her. He picked up the small 1-eared rabbit. The fabric had been worn smooth by years of anxious squeezing. He held it in his large, scarred hand for a second. Then he placed it gently inside the empty canvas tote.
Next he gathered the medical bills. He did not read them yet. He stacked them neatly and placed them beside the rabbit. Tessa stared at him, chest heaving. The sight of the head of the Chicago syndicate collecting her belongings from the floor seemed to leave her unable to move. “Leave the food,” Zo said. “My daughter,” Tessa whispered. The words tore themselves from her throat. “She needs the protein. I couldn’t afford groceries this week. The insulin—the copay went up.” “Please. I just take my share.” “I know.” Zo looked at the spilled risotto. The reality of it tasted like ash. “I know you didn’t steal, Tessa.” He stood. “Leave it.” Then he offered her his hand. Tessa stared at it as though it were a loaded weapon. She backed away and used the wall to pull herself upright rather than touching him. Zo let his hand fall. He ignored the sting of the rejection. He deserved it. “Pick up your bag.” Tessa grabbed the tote and held it tightly against her ribs. “Walk with me.” Zo turned toward the interior door. Tessa hesitated. “To your office?” “To the kitchen.”
