Gio chuckled. “You're a back door man, is that it?”
“Yo, any chance I get, homie,” Bandana laughed. “Feel me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I 'feel you,'” Gio said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his billfold, and peeled off a couple of hundreds for Bandana. “Thanks for the tip.”
“My pleasure,” Bandana replied, tucking the cash into the pocket of his baggy jeans. “Yo, you garlic motherfuckers ever got some room in your organization or whatever, keep me in mind, all right? D-Train from 35th Street. You can ask anyone.”
“Sure,” Gio said evenly. “Don't call us, we'll call you.”
When Gio got to Carolyn's house, he skulked around to the back. He still wasn't sure what he was doing here, or what he really wanted. His most immediate need was to know what she was doing right now, this moment. Sleeping? Doing dishes? Watching TV? Whatever it was, he wanted to watch her doing it.
And on some level, he was still confident that if he were given another chance to seduce her, he'd succeed this time. He'd say whatever she needed to hear, act however she wanted him to in order to get her to acquiesce to him—but he needed her to be his, if only for one night. Just to get it out of his system.
Maybe two nights, though. Or three.
When he got to the back door, he kneeled in front of it and opened the toolbox. He reviewed its contents briefly before selecting a small device that resembled a glue gun, except instead of a spout for a tip, it had a long, thin metal rod engraved with a series of grooves. He'd used it many times in his criminal career, but it was the first time he'd ever utilized it for a personal matter.
Gio inserted the rod into the lock and twisted it carefully. He couldn't help but appreciate the sexual subtext of the activity, and as the lock opened for him with an obedient click, he felt his cock stiffening in his trousers. He withdrew the tool, put it back in its allotted place in the box, and closed it quietly. Then he stood up, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen.
The room looked barely-used, and the trash was full of take-out cartons and plastic cutlery. He wondered how long she'd been living here as he surveyed the items on the counter. A pile of junk mail, a set of house keys...
And a gun.
And an FBI badge, with a picture of Carolyn next to the name “Carla Esposito.”
And a compact microphone and recorder, made to be worn on the body. He'd seen a couple of those before, most recently taped to the chest of the unfortunate mook six months ago.
Gio felt like the room was spinning around him. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head and make sense of what he was seeing. He told himself that he should have known, should have at least suspected—but his father had practically presented her to him as a gift, and Gio had simply gone along with it, confident that Mario somehow would have conclusively cleared her beforehand.
In his mind, Gio tried to replay all of his interactions with Carolyn—no, not Carolyn; he needed to think of her as Carla from now on—to determine whether he'd said or done anything he could be charged for.
He couldn't think of anything, except for busting a bottle over Ronnie's head earlier that night. And that was hardly a federal offense, especially since Ronnie knew he'd be dead if he ever pressed charges.
No, she doesn't have anything on me, he thought. But I damn sure have something on her, and it's a whopper. Unless she wants her cover blown, she'll have no choice but to do what I tell her now.
The thought surprised Gio. Surely he wasn't thinking of letting a Fed keep infiltrating the Mancinis, was he? No, the only thing to do in this scenario was put her down, and then let Mario know they'd had a rat in the house.
Except when he tried to imagine killing her, he couldn't. The idea of holding something this big over her head—of putting her in a position where she'd have to cater to his every fantasy, no matter how dark or disturbing—was too tantalizing. Just shooting her through the head seemed like a waste, especially since she hadn't even managed to gather any real evidence against them yet.
He realized the stiffness in his trousers hadn't receded. If anything, its insistent throb had increased in intensity.
And anyway, what's the harm? he thought. So far, no one knows except me. Obviously she'll have to die eventually—it's not like I can keep a Fed as a pet forever—but until then, she'd be mine to do with as I wished. So why not?
All of these thoughts passed through Gio's mind in a matter of moments. He tucked her gun into the back of his pants, then scooped up the badge and mic and walked over to the hall adjoining the kitchen. He figured he'd find the bedroom in that direction, and sure enough, he saw that the door to the bedroom was ajar. He could hear slow, steady breathing inside, and realized she was still awake. She'd probably even heard him come in.