BUT TOO WELL

A Not-So-Cliché Mafia Romance

by Ami

***

epigraph:

"Speak of me as I am . . . Of one who loved not wisely but too well."

– From Othello by William Shakespeare

•§•

to wonder.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining—or at least I wasn't. When your soon-to-be landlord gives you the deal of a lifetime on a perfect two bedroom, I guess you might question it. You might think again. But at that point, I wasn't picky.

Did I notice that he seemed a little surprised when we spoke over the phone? Yes.

Did I hesitate at just how chipper he was as he gave me a tour? A little.

And did I have my doubts as he anxiously watched me sign the papers, an almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaping his mustached mouth after the final initial? Yeah, I did.

Maybe having to agree to a six month trial period without cancellation should have triggered the warning bells, but I really needed a place.

What could be the dirty, sordid secret, you might be wondering? A leaky faucet, noisy street crowds, poor electrical connection?

Nope. It was one hundred and ten percent perfect, or at least it was for the first couple of days.

It was, until I found out that my ridiculously attractive neighbour was probably a psychotic serial murderer.

I guess I should start from the beginning.

•§•

was a Wednesday afternoon, a few days after I moved in. I was loving my new apartment. The cable, water, and other utilities came included in the impossibly affordable rent, and it was fully, tastefully furnished, with state-of-the-art appliances. Being an artist living in Vancouver is not usually this easy.

I took the elevator up to my room on the sixth floor, marveling at the fact that my office was like a five minute walk away, and I had just found the most amazing café on my way to work in the morning.

Clearly, it was perfect. I wish it could've stayed perfect for longer than two days.

I was texting my friend Shauna, who just got over a hard breakup and was in need of emotional support. A pro at the essential art of text-walking, I was completely oblivious to the malevolent, furious storm that I was about to walk right into, one that would completely and irreversibly change my life forever.

That, of course, comes a little later.

First, I crash ungracefully into a hard, immovable object and let out a very articulate "Oof."

Looking up, and feeling a steady, warm set of hands at my arms keeping me in place, I discover the most beautiful face I have ever seen, and my mouth goes dry. Golden skin, thick lashes, dark, messy hair, full lips, a sharp, hard jawline with a rough dust of perfect stubble... and the most incredible pair of sharp brown eyes that pierce, somehow, right into my soul.

Those eyes meet mine, his hands leaving me steady yet somehow completely disoriented. I manage to choke out a profound "Um, I..." before going silent, unable to do anything but stare.

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, and it sends a tingle down my spine. He lets out a deep, soft chuckle that I feel low in my chest. "A little distracted, huh?" he says, his voice low and rough. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize he was talking about my phone.

I cringe on the inside, trying to clear the muddled cloud fogging up my brain. "I am so sorry," I begin, but he shakes his head, stopping me.

"My fault too." His lips tilt up a little at the sides, and he raises a perfect, curved brow. I shiver as his eyes take me in from top to bottom, and I forget to breathe. Now only a couple feet away, he extends a hand, and the offer is not completely lost on my incapacitated brain.

As I clasp his rough palm in mine, a warmth spreads from his long, smooth fingers across my skin, settling deep in my stomach. "Nero," he introduces with his eyes on mine, and the name rings softly in my ears.

"Uh, Rosalyn," I reply. My voice is completely unsteady and I hate the way it sounds, high and unsure.

Another breathtaking smirk. "Rosalina," he says, his magical voice turning my name into something foreign and unfamiliar. The way his mouth forms the word, like speaking in another accent, another language entirely, leaves me speechless.

I let out a nervous, embarrassed chuckle. "Um, yeah, I live in 600? I just moved in a couple days ago."

Surprise flashes across his gorgeous face, a darkness I can't possibly identify flitting through his brown eyes. "Oh? I live in 602." He pauses, searching my face for something only he could begin to understand. "I'm surprised we haven't met yet."

I find nothing in my extremely eloquent mind to say, only able to continue watching him watching me.

"I didn't even know I had a new neighbour." Something in his tone makes me uncomfortable—it's like a question, a challenge. I banish it uneasily from my thoughts.

"Well, um, I guess I'll see you around," I choke out, so lame, eager to escape the pull of his presence. An odd kind of worry starts to build in my chest.

He nods, fixing his haunting eyes on mine again. "Rosalina." He acknowledges me once more before walking past, and I stand there rooted, still and silent, for a good minute after he leaves.

Even as I fit my keys into the lock, my purse slung over my shoulder, I can't banish the image of his glimmering eyes from my head, or the electric feeling of his hands on my bare arms, even if they were only there for a second.

Oh boy. My life just got a whole lot more interesting.

•§•

still haven't explained the serial murderer part, even though I think I made the attractiveness perfectly clear.

I mentioned that Nero (Italian, I think) seemed a little off to me, despite his flawless charm and good looks. I can't tell you what it was; something about him just seemed kind of... dangerous.

If I had only realized this earlier, I might have been able to do something about it all.

I get home after work Friday afternoon, completely ready for the weekend. I won't pretend that I'm some kind of mad social butterfly or something. I can admit that I enjoy spending some time alone in my pyjamas with a cup of hot chocolate—whipped cream piled high—and a good book. Sue me.

Anyway, there I am, in my fuzzy bunny slippers, pink tank top, and pastel teddy bear PJ pants, fully engrossed in my worn-out copy of Pride and Prejudice. Mr Darcy is just starting to make me swoon when my ear picks up some sort of commotion from next door. I'm Nero's only neighbour. There are only two apartment units on this floor—his and mine. I guess he just isn't used to keeping the volume down.

I hear the angry voices of two males, clearly having a huge argument. They're speaking in rapid-fire Italian, the wall between our two rooms a little too thin. My couch is pressed against the adjoining wall, so I can hear the hostility clearly from my apartment.

I promise I'm not eavesdropping, not consciously anyways. Hey, what can a girl do? First of all, they're loud. Second, and perhaps most importantly, something about Nero makes me curious. I can't help it.

"Angelo," I hear, guessing that's the other guy's name. "I told you." Ooh, English. Somehow, even through the wall, I know it's Nero speaking. I can sense the magnitude of his words, the deep fullness of his voice—commanding and powerful—even without him yelling. Something about that voice keeps me fixated.

He begins speaking in Italian again, doing a kind of weird switch between two languages, his English unaccented and flawless. I heard things like "trouble", "angry" and "idiot", which don't seem too out of the ordinary.

I continue to listen, shamelessly, until my blood runs cold in my veins, and I freeze. I don't speak Italian. But I do speak English, and I can certainly understand some very important English words. And the ones I just heard are completely and utterly terrifying.

First, I heard the word "cocaine". I also heard the words "informant" and "whore". I think the words that cause me the most grief, however, are a couple of calm, rational, cold syllables that made my heart lurch when I heard them: "Shoot him."

After a minute of continued fighting and yelling, I jump a couple feet in the air at the loud, jarring slam of a door—Nero's front door—followed by a set of footsteps racing down the hall to the elevator.

Oh my god.

Oh.

I let Elizabeth and Darcy fall ungracefully to the couch as I stand, my mouth open, staring at my front door. Somehow, I know. I just know that he's there, breathing, on the other side of it. The shadow of his shoes through the slit beneath my door, the hollow feeling at the back of my throat, the heavy weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe... I can't think.

After what seems like forever, I hear his door open again and then slam shut, his footsteps receding. I stand, unable to move, before walking numbly into the bathroom, splashing a handful of cold water onto my warm face. I can barely look at myself. I can barely form a thought.

I have a cold, creeping idea of what just happened, of exactly what just transpired next door. I just don't want to believe it. Briefly, my mind wanders to Al, my landlord, and his nervous anxiety makes sense all of a sudden.

No wonder this apartment was always empty. No wonder no one lasts more than a couple months.

It isn't a leaky faucet or noisy nighttime street crowds. There are no electrical issues or mouldy floorboards. There is, however, a murderous Italian drug dealer next door, a cold-blooded, unfairly beautiful criminal. The dirty little secret is worse than I ever could have imagined.

***

A/N:

My, my... can you imagine? What would you guys have done in Ros's shoes?

XOXO Ami

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