Page 222 of Safe Word

‘Hunting,’ I said.

He tapped a finger against his bicep. A little too casual for a man who looked like he kept a machete under his bed.

Then he tapped it again. And a third time for good measure.

And that was when it hit me: it was a fucking family tic. Paula did the same thing when she was considering whether she wanted to stab me or kiss me.

‘You know where the fresh meat is?’ he asked, voice smooth as silk but carrying the promise of something much worse.

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. ‘Why? You itching to fillet a rabbit?’

A slow, shark-like grin stretched across his face. ‘I do like a good rabbit fillet.’

Jesus Christ.

A fucking demon from hell with a sense of humour. A deranged, should-be-institutionalised, long-body-count kind of humour.

‘Call me Cain,’ I said as we stepped outside, the early summer chill sneaking under my thin shirt.

‘I know your name, Cover Boy,’ he shot back, heading straight for the passenger seat of my Audi. ‘You can call me Matt.’

Without another damn word, he opened the door and dropped inside like an oversized slab of protein-fuelled trouble, and made himself at fucking home.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I was going hunting a psycho – with a gangster.

My life was taking a really weird turn.

The engine grumbled to life beneath my hands, the deep, guttural sound swallowed by the narrow streets. A damp breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the mingled scents of old stone, cigarette smoke, and something sweet.

Just like the rest of my week, Rome was a contradiction at night – both haunting and alive, threaded with history yet pulsing with the weight of the present.

‘How long have you been fucking my sister?’

The words landed like a crack of a gunshot in a quiet room.

I didn’t flinch. If he expected me to panic and slam the brakes, send us both flying through the windscreen, he was going to have to work harder than that.

‘A couple of days,’ I said smoothly, shifting gears as if we were discussing the goddamn weather.

I shot a look at the rear-view mirror, where the glare of Vespa headlights sliced through the night.

‘What now? You get in my face? Make threats? Something cheesy about slicing my balls off?’

I turned onto Via del Corso, rolling into a sea of sluggish traffic. Rome on a Sunday night was a special kind of hell. Tourists wandered like sleepwalkers under neon lights, street performers with dead eyes juggling knives, locals pressing their horns like it were a national sport.

‘Yeah,’ he said flatly, watching the road ahead as if he weren’t actively plotting my murder.

His fingers drummed lazily against the car door.

I exhaled through my nose. ‘Is that what you told that psycho, too?’

His fingers stopped drumming.

‘I didn’t know,’ he said.

A dry chuckle left my throat. ‘Didn’t know what? That she was with him?’