As I debate all this, I knead the dough over and over. I try again to come up with some simple way of expressing to her what I want.

‘What do you think about us, you know, having a thing where we fuck and do stuff together?’

Jesus Christ. I have no clue how to do this.

You know who I should ask? V. He had the same girlfriend for years. Surely he knows a thing or two about relationships, even for a young fella. Guilt hits me head-on. Fuck. I’m a shit of a brother. Here I am thinking about myself when instead of fart-arsing around the house, I should’ve arranged to see him this morning. I’ll ring the office in the morning and book in another visit. I’ll have to get some photos printed off my phone, seeing’s the bastards won’t let me take it in there. He’ll be jealous as all hell when I tell him about the cars in the desert, among everything else, but like I said to him—I’ll take him there one day. When he gets out might be the perfect opportunity. We’ll take a break and get out of town before the MC think they can get their claws on him. I’ll have to arrange some time off with Mac.

I rest the dough and then tackle my washing. When enough time has passed, I unpack the pasta maker and dust the old flour off it.

I look up to the heavens, thinking of my beautiful Mamma. “I’ma making pasta,” I say, mocking her best English accent and waving my open hands in a ta-da gesture.

I hope I don’t fuck up this batch, because I feel as if I’m cooking for my harshest critic. If it’s shit, I know I can rely on Suds to tell it to me straight. I wouldn’t want it, or her for that matter, any other way. I need to show this girl how it’s done.

I clean and dry the bench and dust it with A-grade pasta flour. Have to have the primo shit. In no time, I’m in a good rhythm. Each wind through of the dough makes the pasta thinner each time until I have the perfect thickness for fettucine. There’s flour on the front of my black shirt, on my jeans, on the floor, but I haven’t had this much fun in the kitchen since … well, I guess since Suds and I started cooking together.

It’s right on the tip of my tongue what I want to say to her, but I’m thinking that actions will speak louder than words. I’m just gonna haul her into my arms and let my mouth do the talking. No more pussy footing around.

A series of knocks ring out from the front door.

If that Fuckface ex of Suds is out there, then I’m glad we get to be alone this time. I don’t need this fucker coming around and thinking that he’s welcome, because he’s not. This is my place.

I grab a tea towel and do my best to tidy myself up. Suds should be here any minute. Maybe she can’t find her key in her bag or something. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.

When I open the door, I’m met with two shadows in the stairwell. Two uniformed officers are standing side by side, with their hands clasped in front of them.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Mr De Luca?” the short, female officer enquiries. She brushes her fingers over the loose stands of hair on the side of her head, and tucks them into her navy hat.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Detective Senior Constable Coubrough and this is Detective Constable Grant.”

“My flatmate, Sophie, isn’t here. I’m assuming you’re here because she finally reported her handbag stolen?” At least I hope so.

“Mr De Luca, would you mind if we came in?”

“Sure. I guess, but she’s not home from work yet.”

They take a few steps inside, but we end up awkwardly milling around the entranceway.

“Can we take a seat?” the female officer asks.

I motion towards the lounge room. They both take a seat on the three-seater lounge. I sit opposite, waiting for them to get on with it.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr De Luca. We’re not here to see your flatmate. We’re here to see you.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat. “Okay.”

If that fuckwit Brett is pressing charges over our little scuffle in Nowra I’m gonna lose it. Particularly after that shit he pulled with Suds in Vegas. The bastard is lucky I haven’t tried to drive him into the ground like a fence post.

“Hit me with it,” I say and brace myself. It won’t help me to lose it in front of these guys. I can do that after they leave. That dipshit Brett will be complaining about more than a possible broken nose next time I see his face.

“Your younger brother Vinnie has been found dead,” the female cop says.

“Ah, what?” For a second there I thought she said …

“Your brother is dead. I’m very sorry for your loss.” She reaches out her hand and places it on my fingers, which are curled over my kneecap.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Can my partner make you a coffee or a tea?” she asks.

As if on cue, the tall male officer stands and strides into the kitchen.

“Earlier today we were informed by Long Bail Jail that Vincent De Luca was found dead. Again, I’m sorry—”

“Um, what?”

“Is there anybody I can call for you?”

“No, but what you can do is tell me what the fuck happened,” I snarl.

“Long Bay informed us that he had been moved back from protection a few days ago. We’re treating the death as suspicious, and will be conducting a criminal investigation. As your brother died in custody, the coroner will be conducting an inquest.”

Holy fuck! Did my meddling do this?

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

“Yes, but for the purposes of formal identification we need you to accompany us to the morgue to identify the body.”

“When?” I blurt out.

“As soon as possible.”

I need to see this shit for myself. I won’t believe it until I see him.

It’s not him.

It’s not.

With the back of my hand, I wipe the wetness from my cheek. Harden the fuck up, De Luca. It’s not him. It’s some other fucker that’s been doin’ time. The jail has got him mixed up. Half the staff in that fucked-up place couldn’t find their own arse if you asked them to. They’d ask you to fill out a fucking form first.

I stand up and grab my wallet and keys, leaving the bench covered in the now dry and cracked pasta.

“Let’s go,” I say, as I hold the door open.

Both officers guide me down the stairs, one behind me and one in front. It’s as if they think I’m gonna do a runner or something.

The male cop opens the back door and ushers me into the back seat. Vinnie probably sat in a car just like this when they arrested him. He would have been shitting bricks.

This is some kind of warped dream. It has to be.

A life without my brother?

Nessuna famiglia. No family.

Where does that leave me?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

SOPHIE

Second-last shift down, one to go. With each day that passes before I start my new job, the load is getting lighter. It’s fucking liberating.

Today I confirmed with the bank that Fuckface did in fact pay off a hundred grand, and later another instalment of fifty thousand after that, which pretty much covers it.

Part of me is relieved, but another part of me worries that he’ll return. He was adamant that he would get me back. One thing I know is that I’m holding my ground. He has to clear everything with the bank. I’ve done enough.

There are no free car spaces up close to the apartment this afternoon, so I park a way down the street. I pull up to the curb and jerk on the handbrake. Fuckface is a jerk. Thinking about him only stirs me up more. I have to be pro-active about this.

I dial Vicky’s number.

“Hey, Sophie. So good to hear from you,” she says in that effervescent tone I’ve come to take a liking to.

“You too, Vicky. Hey, I hope I’ve got you at a good time, but I was wondering if I could ask a favour? Feel free to say no.”