Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

14 || Crossfire

～·～·～

The man didn't know how much the detective knew, which meant if Olsworth played his words right, a potential lead could be within reach. He'd just have to gamble some of his intel and hope the pieces fit.

"Should I assume this Wolfe boss of yours had something to do with it?"

"Assume all you want, detective. But if you know what is good for you. . ." his gaze titled up, dark eyes pinching slightly. "You will stay out of it."

Olsworth impulsively clicked the pen in his pocket to control his fidgety chill. It wasn't a denial.

"Why go through the trouble of impersonating Matteo and agreeing to meet up if you're just gonna tell me to fuck off? You could've easily gotten rid of the phone and called it a day."

The man offered him a voiceless smile. His bony cheeks puffed up, crow feet streaking from his eyes, lips thinning together. He revealed nothing further than a silent quirk of somewhat placid friendliness. It was too placid against the ominous glint in his eye; especially knowing his involvement with the Racanellis.

A passing tick and the man dropped his gaze beneath the felt hat's shade. "Our boss. He is. . . ruthless like his father. Some say more so. Quiet. Patient. But not forgiving. Which is why I ask, why. . . why did Matteo betray everything we built? Our lives, our reputation, our famiglia for the blind hope you promised him?"

There was a hush of frustration in the breath of his tone—a briefly peaked emotion that confirmed there was more to the man's casual demeanor than he was leading on. Maybe he wants revenge and I've got a bullseye on my back.

"Sounds like you two were closer than he led me to believe," Olsworth replied smoothly.

The man scoffed, shaking his head in suspected disbelief. Or maybe it was a playoff from the baited truth. "Always with the assume, detective."

You're not denying it.

"It's my job to assume the blanks."

The man gave another huff of the shoulders, though it wasn't as heavy or entertained as the first.

A faint whistle blew from the wind, pitching their silence as it passed through the tunnel. It rattled the empty can; knocked off the edge for sharp aluminum clatters to once again reverberate. The echo was well acquainted with the subway's hollowed-out bones.

"Neither of us acknowledged it," the man told once the clatters settled. "The parties involved, who were also brothers, relished in the idea of sharing a woman between themselves. Our mother was a victim of their ways. They pumped her veins so full of drugs each time they used her because she was. . . their favorite. It is what they told us. A means to justify their actions. 'A man takes what he wants.'"

Goosebumps prickled his skin as Olsworth glanced at the man, wary of the sudden depth in the conversation. Was it just a revenge scheme? A twisted sense of closure? Although it was as clear as day, Olsworth wasn't buying it. It was too easy, especially from a member of the Racanelli mafia, and the last thing he could afford was getting cocky with the baseball bat just because he was hitting a few home runs.

"What happened to her. . . your mother?"

"The mistreatment. . . years of it. It does something to the fragility of the mind." The man met Olsworth's gaze, offering a solemn, less than crinkly-eyed smile. "It was not the narcotics that killed our mother, detective."

"My condolences," Olsworth expressed with a respectable nod, clicking his pen slowly.

"Don't be. Women are merely accessories, and my mother is a prime example that they'll be nothing more than it. From one tragedy to another, that is what drives a man. Pride fueling the insatiable thirst for vengeance. I work closely with the boss, so it is a common means to an end I've seen to win his favor."