Rory places a steaming mug in front of me. “Here’s your tea, Rafey,” she says sweetly. Too sweetly. As I look down at the steaming liquid, Angelo nudges it out of reach. “Don’t drink that,” he mutters, chomping on a slice of toast. “I need you sharp today.” “Gesù Cristo.” I glance up at Rory’s back as she makes teas for her and Angelo. Using a different spoon, obviously. “Your girl’s a psycho,” I bite out in rapid Italian.
