Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(16)

“Then perhaps you can tell me why she does it.”

“What difference would it make?” She shrugs. “The girl is sick. She needs help. But her father never allowed it.”

Her indifference is forced. It would be a weakness to admit she cares, but her will is close to bending. I need her to keep talking.

“Why wouldn’t he allow it? I was under the impression that she was special to him.”

Aida purses her lips. “She is a mafia princess. You should know these things, thief. Her life has been sheltered. No outside influences. That is the only way, I suppose, to keep her safe.”

“I am open to suggestions.”

The old woman sighs, shoving her bottle thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Try minestrone. Her mother used to make it for her as a child. She would always eat it when I made it too.”

My lungs expand, and I feel lighter. Perhaps it’s relief, but every scrap of information I gather about Nakya only fuels the fire inside me demanding to know more.

“You can’t force her,” Aida adds. “It’s not the way with her. She is obedient but stubborn. If you tell her she must do something, it will only encourage resistance.”

There is no question I forced the feeding tube on her. But after the doctor’s examination and report, we both agreed it was necessary. I don’t like forcing nourishment on Nakya, but if I must do it to keep her alive, I will.

“Can you tell me more about her mother?”

Aida’s brows knit together. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I have heard rumors, and I am curious what happened to her.”

“The same thing that will inevitably happen to Tanaka,” she says. “It’s the mafia way.”

“Her mother killed herself,” I argue. “Tanaka is not of such weak disposition.”

“If you know already, then you have no need to ask these things of me.”

“I only want to know more about her so I can help.”

“Sure, you do.” Aida snorts. “You want to help as long as it benefits you.”

She is right, and to deny it would be an insult to her intelligence. Aida is done with this line of questions, and I’m out of angles. There are other avenues. It will take more time, but she is not the only possible lead.

I turn away, and her voice fills the silence.

“I’m an old woman. I just want to live out the rest of my days in peace.”

“Nobody will know I’ve been here,” I assure her. “You have my word.”

“What good is a thief’s word?”

I pivot to meet her cloudy gaze. “You tell me.”

She points down the hallway. “Go to the kitchen and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

I do as she instructs, and Aida is not far behind, shuffling along in her robe and slippers. She busies herself with the preparations while I take a seat in an uncomfortably small vinyl chair at the kitchen table.

While the kettle warms, Aida sets the table for tea. Cups, saucers, sugar cubes, and creamer. She adds a plate of freshly baked banana bread from the microwave, and I eat two slices while I wait. Throughout the process, her eyes move to me often. She is still uncertain of my motives, and when she comes to sit across from me, I think she is undecided how much of the truth to indulge.

“Tanaka was a bright little girl,” she tells me. “Smart and inquisitive. Her studies taught her everything that a girl of her stature should know, but it was never enough. Her mind was always full of questions, and that curiosity would sometimes get her into trouble.”

My lip curls at the corner, though it should make no difference to me what the little dancer was like as a child.

The kettle whistles, and Aida brings it to the table, pouring it over the tea bags before resting it on a hot pad. She resumes her seat, the steam fogging her glasses as she stares into the cup.

“I have never in all my years witnessed such a determined child. When she went to her first ballet, that was it for her. It was the thing she wanted to do, and nothing else could captivate her attention from that day forward. Not even her studies. She wanted to set her own course. She wanted to perfect every move before she even learned the basics.”

I remove the tea bag from my cup and add a cube of sugar. “It sounds like very little has changed. She never seems to think of anything else.”

Aida prepares her own tea with sugar and cream. “It was an escape for her. At first, I thought it was good for her to have a childhood dream. It allowed her a space away from her life. I could see it on her face when she danced that she was in another world. But when her mother died, it became her only world, and she retreated there far too often. I tried to find other outlets for her, but it did not work. Nothing ever worked. The only time she was happy was when she danced.”

I venture another try at the question that continues to plague me. “What happened to her mother?”

This time, Aida doesn’t hold back. “Manuel happened.”

“I have heard that she often wore a veil.”

“She never took it off.” She shakes her head. “Not after—she was horribly disfigured.”

“By Manuel?” I press.

She hesitates but nods. “He carved her face up with a knife so that no man in his employ would ever be tempted by her beauty.”