Demand (Careless Whispers #2)(22)

“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?”