Trapped by the Mafia

6. The Graveyard Shift

A Catholic funeral service with Mass usually exceeds one hour.

***

The shadow that drops over me is not just any random shadow.

No, no. It's Matteo Scali's shadow, and he casts a long one.

The subject of my angst attack, in person, stands over me.

Gosh, he caught me looking at him, so he must have spotted me. Ohmigod! With awareness like this, he had to have noticed a thing or two about his carnations.

"You!" Scali sounds smug and exasperated at the same time. "Of course, it's you. I knew it had to be you, the moment the shrubbery moved. Who else could it be?"

"Aren't you smart!"

"Thank you." He turns my barb into a compliment, and I want to strangle him myself. "Too bad you're dumber than you think you are."

"Ah..." Yes, he noticed.

"Bryn, what possessed you? You're lucky I shoved a wreath in front of your idiotic display of...what shall we call it...wit."

He grabs my hand and drags me from under my rock with the persistence of a small engine that could. Technically, this isn't my rock, it's Luciano and Valentina Della-Something's rock, may they both rest in peace.

"Scali, I'm sorry about the carnations...the design was a brain fart."

"A brain fart? People get shot for lesser acts of disrespect."

"Shot? Are you crazy? Shot?!"

His face is so close to mine, our breath mingles. Mine is ragged, his is huffy. What strikes me is that he seems more worried about me, than pissed. "I...I didn't mean to insult your father. You got under my skin, and I...I"

His sunglasses are a bit askew, and his gaze fixates on mine. Words die in my mouth. I'm a bug trapped in amber.

The camera bounces between his wrist and mine when Scali yanks me even closer to him. For a mad second I expect him to kiss me, but he pushes me away.

"You aren't a fucking florist, are you?" He pushes me again, away from the funeral party.

"I am! But forget it. Forget the stupid carnations! I have something more important to tell you." I squeeze the phone in my camera-free hand and wiggle it at Scali like a white flag. "Scali... Scali, are you Matty the Trigger?"

Scali pulls me one more time, into the shade of a huge tree and grabs the phone out of my hands. His movements are so fast that I'm left standing, aghast, staring at my hands.

My camera is gone too. I was just holding it! How did that happen? When did he take it? I was just fucking holding it!

"What are you— Give it back!"

"Freelancing, are we? You threw a provocation in, then stayed around to see what happens with the family." He scrolls through the photo folder with an angry thumb. "I knew you looked too classy for a minimum-wage job."

My brain finally connects the dots. Oh. My. God. He thinks I'm a madcap journalist chasing the scoop on Tangorello. What else is he supposed to think, with me peeking from around the gravestone like Inspector Gadget and giving a mafia family a finger in carnations? Oh, God.

"No, no, no... You got it wrong," I rattle on. "That is, yes, I'm a freelancer, but I'm not a paparazzi." Or a used car salesman. Or a divorce lawyer. Nor anything else slimy. "I'm dumb."

As is becoming his habit, he's ignoring everything I'm saying. His face assumes a perplexed expression—it's only slightly different from his stone-cold expression.