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“There’s a really funny story about that…” I venture.

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” Cenzo mutters. He frowns and gives the frozen penis another sour look. “So…back in the freezer?”

“Unless you’re looking for a swizzle stick for your drink.”

He chuckles to himself as he puts the Tupperware back, grabs a handful of actual ice cubes, and shuts the freezer door.

“You two lunatics were made for each other.”

When my brow arches, he grins with some embarrassment.

“I…might have been told that you and my brother share a certain…hobby.”

My mouth thins. “That going to be a problem?”

He snorts. “Not at all. I’ve lived with a serial killer my entire life. Family is family.” He shrugs. “Plus, I’ve got nothing to worry about from you.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “No?”

He grins widely. “Nah. See, I have this really crazy fucked-up kink where I like my sexual partners to be adults. So…” He shrugs again. “Kinda feels like that takes me off your shit list.”

I giggle as we sit at the kitchen table. Cenzo dumps ice in our glasses and pours before sliding one my way.

“Alla famiglia,” he says, lifting his drink in a toast.

“To family,” I smile, clinking my glass to his.

Cenzo takes a sip and then frowns when his phone jingles before pulling it out. I use the moment to dump half the vodka in my glass into the little Ziploc bag hidden in my lap that I snagged while he wasn't looking.

For one, I don’t really drink much. But also, I can hardly get Cenzo drunk enough to spill dirty little Damiano secrets if I’m also wasted. And let’s be real, the guy is like twice my size. If we went drink for drink, I’d be dead before he gave up a single ex-girlfriend’s name.

“Hmm…” A reddish-faced, slightly glassy-eyed Vincenzo frowns at me over the rim of his glass. He takes a sip, swallowing slowly as his brows knit. “Nope.” He shakes his head. “None that I can remmmbrrr,” he slurs.

Damn.

It’s not like my only reason for getting Cenzo wasted was to glean the names of Damiano’s exes, so that I could, hypothetically speaking, stalk them, break into their houses, replace their furniture with slightly smaller versions thereof, befriend them with a fake name, start lacing their coffee with mercury, and otherwise convince them over the course of a few months that they’re going insane until they become shells of their former selves.

You know, pranks.

But an hour and a half after we sit down with the vodka, Damiano’s now quite drunk brother still hasn’t spilled any names.

He has met me halfway on the whole “Vinny” thing, and we seem to have settled on “Vincent”. But he hasn’t given me shit on Damiano.

I sigh and swirl the ice around my largely decorative vodka.

“So, Dame’s always been like this?”

Vincent, né Vincenzo, frowns at me. “What, the whole killing, murdery thing?”

I grin. “No, I mean like…” I wave vaguely. “You know. Everything has to be exactly where he put it. Everything has a system. Everything has rules. I swear, he looks like I just insulted your mom if I leave a dirty spoon in the sink.”

Cenzo snorts. “Yup. Always.” He reaches for his glass. “I mean, mostly.”

My focus sharpens. “Mostly?”

He rolls the glass between his palms, thinking.

“I mean, he’s always been intense, and he’s always been stuck on wanting things a certain way. But it definitely got worse after⁠—”