Free The Hitwoman and the Poisoned Apple (Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Book 8) by JB Lynn

hard. If I didn’t answer him he’d think I was an idiot. But if I answered incorrectly, I could upset him by insulting his family.
    “Say it,” he urged.
    “She doesn’t do what’s best for Dominic?” I guessed.
    He pounded on the table, causing the bowls and spoons to clatter. Flinching, I looked around to see if anyone else was aware of the outburst, but there was no one else in sight.
    “Right.” He hit the table again for emphasis. “She’s his blood but she doesn’t do what’s best for the boy. She should be at his bedside all the time. Talking to him, reading him stories, holding his hand.  She says it’s ‘too hard,’ ” he mocked in a cruel tone. “But that’s the reason he hasn’t opened his eyes. He doesn’t know he’s loved. He doesn’t feel it.” The mobster buried his head in his hands.
    I got the impression that was the first time he’d said those terrible thoughts aloud. I could feel the tension emanating from him like heat off a fire.
    “I disagree,” I whispered so softly that I could barely hear myself.
    He looked up. “What?” There was an edge of anger in that one syllable that threatened to slice me to shreds.
    “I disagree,” I repeated, steeling myself against the killer look he gave me. Even  so, the fear made it hard to breathe. “You’re there every day,” I choked out. “He knows you love him. He has to feel it.”
    Delveccio’s anger melted away and I saw tears shimmering in his gaze. “You think so?”
    I looked away, not wanting to see the tough mobster cry. “I know it.”
    He didn’t speak for a long time, but I stubbornly kept my eyes on the clock on the far wall, watching the second hand tick away.
    Finally he cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
    Daring to look at him, I saw that he’d regained his composure.
    “It’s nice of you to say.”
    I nodded, not sure of what would be safe to say.
    He systematically ate his entire bowl of pudding before he spoke again.  Noticing I hadn’t touched mine, he asked, “Not hungry?”
    “I had olives for lunch and now I don’t feel so great.”
    He wrinkled his nose. “Too much salt. I wanted to give you the package to be delivered.”
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper and slid it across the table.
    I covered it with my palm. “Where does it have to go?”
    “All in good time,” he murmured mysteriously. Then he warned, “Just don’t open it.”
    I tilted my hand to look at the tiny, light as air, box. “It’s not a bomb, is it?”
    He chuckled. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
    I shrugged.
    “No. It’s not a bomb and it doesn’t offend your sensitive principles.” He got to his feet, his half-unbuttoned shirt gaping and showing off an expanse of jiggling flesh I could have lived without seeing. “I’ll be in touch.”
    He lumbered away, leaving me with uneaten pudding and a mysterious box.
     

 

Chapter 8
     
    I didn’t dare to go visit Katie right away because I was afraid that Delveccio had gone to see his grandson, so I ate the chocolate pudding.
    Hey, it’s a legitimate stalling technique.
    “Ahhh, I see you’ve slipped to the dark side.”
    I looked up to find Jack Stern, the man who hadn’t bothered to mention he was a reporter, watching me eat. Remembering how chummy he’d been with Mrs. Mulligan the day before, I tried to keep my expression blank.
    “Jack Stern. We met yesterday,” he prompted. Just like the last time I saw him, he wore black jeans and a black leather jacket, but this time a white shirt softened his look.
    “I remember, Mr. Stern.”
    He hesitated, puzzled by my cool demeanor. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” he murmured finally, stepping backward.
    “You weren’t,” I found myself admitting. “I was just daydreaming.”
    “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he settled his lanky frame into the seat Delveccio had occupied.
    I stared pointedly at his bottle of water, the only