Dirty Lies

NOT SO SIMPLE

"What the hell did you do that for?"

We were in the backseat of my uncle's Mercedes. An armed driver was behind the wheel.

Federico laughed. "My boy. For all of your talent, you're sometimes kind of dense. You were a journalist and best-selling author. You should know it's better to control the press than have the press control you. Never turn down a chance for publicity. And I think the better question is, how are you already so acquainted with a local reporter?"

Shifting my body to face him, I tried to tamp down my irritation. I didn't mind much that Skylar had met Federico, but I'd never imagined she'd want to write a story on the old man. It was a complication I didn't need.

"We met when that plane crashed the other day. She came over and had a glass of wine afterward, and..." I waved my right hand in the air in a circular motion.

Federico continued to chuckle. "Good for you."

"I just didn't think we'd run into her, or that she'd try to interview you. I really don't want her poking around and mentioning me in her article about you."

"Relax, Luca. I'll make sure she doesn't mention you. This is The Palmira Post, not The New York Times. I know the publisher. I can always make a call if we think it's going to be a problem. And anyway, don't worry about Bruno Castiglione or the mafia finding you because of a Florida newspaper article. If I were hiding you, would I go out of my way to be in the news? I'm in the papers all the time. Castiglione is awaiting trial. Your book did its job. Your days of worrying are over."

"I'm not so sure about that," I said slowly.

I didn't want to rail at my relative out of a sense of old-world respect, but sometimes, I wondered if Federico took my concerns about safety seriously.

It was difficult to tell. Even though Federico was my blood relative, I barely knew him. He was the older brother of my father, and the two men had been estranged for the entirety of my life for reasons unknown. Federico had come to America before I was born, and had lived here long enough to assume the country's breezy, anything-goes facade. Which was why it was difficult for me to tell if Federico's concern for his situation matched its gravity. I'd feel safer when Castiglione—Naples's biggest mafia boss and the subject of my first book—was convicted and in prison.

Soon.

"And you didn't have to come to the store with me," my uncle chided.

I rolled my eyes. "I've been in the house for two weeks. I needed to get out. You're the one who said it was safe."

"Palmira is safe. And don't worry about the reporter. She won't put two and two together. She's young. Is she even old enough to drink? She won't find out anything. There's so little about you online. That was the benefit of writing your book anonymously, no?"

I snorted. "Yeah, only my agent and editor knew I wrote the book. And my parents. And you." I made a fist and crushed it on the leather seat. "It still burns me that Castiglione found out I'm the author. I'd love to kill whoever told him. I'm doing my best to lay low until the court case is over. God knows enough people disappear in the months before a trial..."