I unplugged Antonio’s phone and called the number at the next light. If his phone wasn’t secure, I didn’t know what would be.

“Hello?”

“Marina? This is Theresa Drazen. I’d like to meet with you.”

She barked a laugh. “About what? I told you he’d never be with you.”

My heart jumped into my throat, as if deciding it needed to be eaten rather than tolerate this. I swallowed hard. “It’s business.”

“I’m not in the business.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. “What then?”

“It’s not what you think. Where is good for you?”

“Dunno. Things are a little crazy with the men right now.”

“I know. I’m on Marmion, if that helps.”

“Yeah,” she said sharply, as if coming to a decision. “Sure, yeah. Come by Yes Café, off La Carna. Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t hear me apparently, because she’d hung up.

Yes Café had plastic-wrapped sandwiches and lousy coffee. The half and half came in little plastic cups with peel tops. I sat in the wooden chair and looked out the window playing with Antonio’s phone. It felt like reminiscing about Antonio, even though the thing was clean of anything but music and a short call history. He’d given it to me, he’d left me, and now it was all I had.

I read the local paper, which reported the same things as the bigger papers: The spate of violence in the city. Bruno Uvoli’s nasty history which may or may not have included having a hand in the death of his cousin, Domenico Uvoli. Vito Oliveri’s penchant for young girls. Nothing new but the insinuation that they had it coming.

Marina was twenty minutes late. She came in from the parking lot in the back, all heels and tight jeans, makeup and shiny hair. I hadn’t realized how young she was, maybe her early twenties. Dew hung on her like the morning, and I felt a twist of jealousy for the fact that she was so fresh and pretty.

“Hi,” she said, clutching her purse strap over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

She shrugged and sat. “It’s fine.”

“Did you tell Antonio you were coming to meet me?”

She looked at me sheepishly.

“It’s fine either way,” I said.

“I gotta go soon, so if you want to say something?”

I took a deep breath. “I trust you to bring this to Antonio because you care about him.”

“He won’t like me getting involved.”

“I know. He can take it out on me if he wants.” I leaned forward, hands folded. “I happen to know that the district attorney is getting a warrant to search l'uovo.”

She looked down, shifting her mouth to one side.

I continued. “I don’t know when he’s serving it. Tonight, tomorrow, next week. So if you could tell Antonio personally as soon as you can.”

“Well, the shop is kinda burning down. And uh, I hear things got hot with some of the other guys. The other, um, group.”

She was so unpracticed, so raw in her immaturity, I didn’t know whether to feel threatened or sorry for her naiveté.

“You seem different than you were on the phone the other night,” I said.

She turned pink. “You’re intimidating in person.”

“Well, in the interest of not making you any more uncomfortable, I have nothing else.” I picked up my bag.

“Wait,” she said. “You need to tell him what you told me. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Do you have a little time?”

Did I? Was I looking to get involved even more deeply? By a woman who perceived me as a threat? Did I want to go home to my empty loft? Or start the round of calls to friends and family to ensure I had things to do and places to go for the next few days? Or did I want to exist in Antonio’s sphere for another hour?

“Sure,” I said.

She drove up the hill in her Range Rover. I followed her lights on the unlit roads. We were a few miles west of the car shop. She stopped on the top of a hill. The concrete ditch of the L.A. River was beneath us.

“This it?” I said.

Below were makeshift shacks occupied by the homeless, some more complex than others. Across the river was Frogtown, but no one would walk across the muck of a dry river bed for that.

“Marina?” I turned to ask her where we were going but stopped short.

She was holding a little silver gun.

“Jesus Christ.” I held up my hands.

“What did you do?” she asked. “Tell me. What did you do to make him love you?”

“He doesn’t—”

“You’re lying. He does. You made him crazy. He’s still crazy.”

“I didn’t do anything Marina, I—”

“He’s destroyed everything because of you. First, he dumped me, then he threw Vito Oliveri under the bus. And Bruno? Bruno was a good guy. But he saw what was happening, and he tried to get you so he could put some sense into Antonio. It was just going to be an example.”

“He let Bruno live, Marina. I was there. He could have killed him. He had his wits about him.”

“Bruno was made, you dumb Irish bitch. He can’t kill him without warning every other family in Los Angeles he’s gonna do it. They’re coming from the old country to kill Antonio, and now I’m going to save him by killing you. The cause of it all.”

I didn’t know if it actually worked like that. I wasn’t in her world. Maybe if she brought my head to Donna Maria Carloni and whoever was coming from the old country, that would be helpful to Antonio. Maybe the spell I’d woven around him would be broken and he’d start making coherent decisions again.

I stepped back, hands still raised. “You understand if you murder me, you’ll go to jail. Is that what you want?”

“For him, I’d go.” She straightened her arms and aimed for my heart.

Smart girl, unfortunately. It was a safer shot than the head. Her hands tightened. I would be dead in a second. I wasn’t sure my arm would reach when I extended it for the gun. She moved, bending her elbows, and it went off with a flash and a pop.

I didn’t feel any pain, just a pressure and a blank space in my thoughts. The world went sideways, then I heard another crack, and— nothing.

The pain came first, as if someone had put a sharp clamp on the side of my head. The sounds came afterward. People shuffling, metallic clacking noises, short laughs, all men. The acoustics indicated I was in a small space. And the smell was wet, sticky earth.

My mouth was dry, and I moved my tongue.

“What’s the date?” said a voice. That voice.

I didn’t know the answer, but I opened my eyes. Lights and colors were blurred as if thrown into a blender.

“What’s your name?”

“Contessa,” I croaked.

“Good.”

I blinked, squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them again. The room was tight and low, with dirt walls and ceiling. Enzo and Niccoló passed by, yammering in Italian, and over me was…

“Capo.”

“Shh. Please. You got a good knock on the head.”

“Where am I?”

“Under l'uovo. But I’ll say no more.”

“Where’s Marina?”

He shook his head. “She’s fine, but stupid. Otto found her and you just in time. She’s being sent home to Naples tomorrow. How is your ear?”

That must be the searing pain on the side of my head. “Hurts.”

“It caught a bullet.”

I got up on my elbows and looked around. I saw a door on each side of the room and a wall lined with racks of rifles.

“I wanted to tell you something,” I said.

“Marina told me.”

I noticed then that he wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t holding my hand or stroking my cheek. His fingers were laced together between his legs.

“Thank you. The warning about the DA is very helpful. We were clearing out anyway. Paulie’s gone.”

“Why?”

“Why? He put you in a terrible position. We, ah…” He looked at his hands. My vision had cleared enough to see the red scratches on his fists. “We fought. He set the shop on fire. I don’t know who he will align with, if anyone. But not me.” He stood. The ceiling wasn’t much higher than his head.