Chapter 3
That made him pause. That small sentence, delivered with the certainty of someone who had already tested every other door. She wasn’t guessing. She knew. She’d tried the police, or social workers, or neighbors. She’d been turned away. And so she’d come here, to the only address in the city where fear was currency, to beg from a monster because the saints had all been busy.
Rossetti studied her face. The dirt under her fingernails. The shoes that were two sizes too big, held together with silver duct tape wrapped around the toe. The way she kept glancing over her shoulder, into the dark mouth of the alley behind her, like something worse than rain was following. Like she expected to be grabbed at any moment.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elena. Elena O’Shea.”
“And the dog?”
“Bruno.” Her voice cracked on the name. “He’s three months old. He doesn’t bite. He’s not potty trained yet, but he’s learning.” She was reciting this. Like she’d practiced it in front of a mirror. Like she’d rehearsed every possible objection and prepared answers in advance, memorized her script the way other children memorized multiplication tables. “He likes chicken better than beef. And he sleeps under my pillow because he gets scared at night.”
Rossetti looked at the puppy. The animal stared back with glossy black eyes, too young to understand danger, too trusting to know it was being offered to a man who had ordered more deaths than most surgeons had performed.
“You can’t stand out here,” Rossetti said. He straightened, feeling the pull in his knees, the weight of years settling into his joints. “My office is two blocks away. We’ll talk there properly.”
May you like
Elena’s eyes widened. “Your office?”
“Unless you’d prefer to freeze to death on a street corner.”
