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But even though Damiano has started letting me see bits of him I’m pretty sure most people never do, there are still entire sections of him that feel locked up tight behind a steel door.

Which, admittedly, is hilariously hypocritical on my part.

It’s not like I’ve handed him the director’s cut of my own fucked-up childhood. There are several chapters I’ve omitted, including an enormous one that I’ve kept firmly to myself.

But just because I haven’t told him my own villain origin story doesn’t mean I’m not dying to know his.

My eyes drift back to Cenzo.

…Who, as he just said, “knows the fucker better than anyone”.

Interesting.

I glance down at the bottle of vodka in my hand.

Very interesting.

“Do you have any plans right now?”

Cenzo shrugs. “You’re looking at 'em. But I can get out of your hair if⁠—”

“I was actually just wondering what the hell I was going to do until Dame gets home.” I shrug and lift the bottle. “You down for a drink and getting to know each other better, favorite brother-in-law o' mine?”

He chuckles. “Favorite sister-in-law, you have yourself a deal.”

I leave the bottle on the kitchen table and walk over to the cabinets to grab some glasses.

“You take ice, Bella?”

I nod absently as I rise up on my tiptoes to pluck two rocks glasses down. “Yeah, I—wait!!”

I whirl to tell Cenzo to sit and that I’ll get the ice from the freezer.

Too late.

My husband's younger brother stands motionless in front of the open freezer door, still gripping the handle.

“Um…yeah, that’s…” I wince. “That’s really not what it looks⁠—”

“No?” His face is blank as he turns to me, holding the fogged Tupperware in one hand. “Cause, you know, I’m no expert⁠—”

“Cenzo—”

“But that looks a whole lot like a severed fucking dick to me,” he mutters, his brow furrowing. “And balls.”

Silence blankets the kitchen, my eyes darting between Cenzo’s tight lips and Mr. Hands’ semi-frozen penis—and balls—in the Tupperware in his hand.

“That’s…” I shrug as casually as I can muster. “That’s not, like…you know…human or anything…”

The faintest hint of amusement flickers in Cenzo’s eyes as he shakes the Tupperware. “Just the tragic remains of Connecticut’s most well-hung squirrel, then?”

I smile. “Obviously. For science.”

“Of course.”

In my defense, it’s not as grotesquely random as it sounds. Months ago, after Mr. Hands evaded authorities and disappeared, the father of one of the victims went viral for posting a video online, calling out the ineptness of the local police and offering a twenty thousand-dollar reward to anyone who could bring him, verifiably, Mr. Hands’ castrated dick.

I neither need nor want the money. But I figure, I got my enjoyment out of the dead clown. Why shouldn’t I share that with others?