Chapter 57 #2
“He killed my mother.” God, saying that out loud, acknowledging it is like a fresh form of grief and my chest starts to stutter.
“He put my father in a wheelchair.” That doesn’t hurt any less.
“It’s the only way, Christian. You’ve got to take me back.
I’ll do it tonight. He won’t even suspect me.
He never suspected anything that we did. ”
I feel sick again saying what I intend to do. In the cold light of day and in the wake of the killings, I understand that everything has changed. While my conviction to see Ettore dead might not have waned, I find many flaws in the following-through part.
“Got to? Not a fucking chance I’m taking you to him.” He blows out a breath. “Jesus. Do you have any idea how crazy that is?”
Tears pool in my eyes: guilt, self-recrimination, and regret.
“Killing someone, even someone you fucking hate, is not easy. I’ve seen plenty of street-wise soldiers balk when it comes down to it.”
“I won’t balk.”
“Carmela, you’re not a fucking killer. And I don’t want you to be—ever.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair. His hand is shaking. I’ve never seen his hand shake, not even when he killed those men.
“A piece of me would die letting you have any part of that. I got you away from Ettore—I hate that it took so long to do it—and I will never willingly take you back… And suppose you did? What about afterward? What do you think would happen to you?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” I had, and it involved Dante and Christian magically sweeping in.
“The place would be locked down. Ettore’s brothers would have,” he tightens his shaking hand into a fist and then lets it go, “taken their revenge out on you.”
“I just wanted it to be over… and I didn’t want to lose you or Dante in a war.”
“Jesus.” He sucks air in through his teeth.
“That was really brave, Carmela. It’s fucking crazy, but it’s also off the charts brave.
But Dante and me—and Leon, too—we don’t let the women we love fight the battles.
That’s not how this works. It’s not how we work.
And even if I wanted to, I can’t take you back to him.
I just choked Roman out. He’s alright—I fucking like him.
His wife’s due to have a baby any day, but I choked him out, and I thought really hard about just killing him. ..”
The magnitude of my actions and the danger present and future hit me with all the velocity of a wrecking ball in full swing.
He just said he loved me.
A screaming siren and flashing lights whip past the front of the store.
“It’s not safe here. I’ve got to get you back to Dante,” he mutters, but he’s no longer looking at me, or at the passing police car; he’s staring at the occupied table a few down.
A young man and woman have a laptop out with several open books scattered over the table.
Backpacks with the local campus name sit on the floor beside their chairs.
Students. My sister is going to the same university in a matter of weeks. That might have been me, too, I realize with a faint, wistful longing for something that never was.
Christian rises abruptly and approaches them.
A short conversation follows that I can’t hear.
He hands over a wad of bills to the young man, who packs his laptop into his backpack and snatches up a car key from the table.
“We’re leaving.” Christian’s arrival at my side snaps me out of my daze.
“Leaving for where?”
CHRISTIAN
We step outside of Starbucks. Two more cop cars come ripping past, sirens blazing.
“Does that have anything to do with you?” Vince, the student I just paid five hundred dollars to drive us to the marina, asks.
“You got student debts, yeah?”
He side eyes me, before his lips tug up on one side. “So does my girlfriend.”
“Negotiating like a pro there, Vince.”
“I’m studying business. Negotiation 101.”
Cocky fucker.
Ahead, I can see the neon sign for the parking garage where Vince’s car is. But on the other side of the road are two flunkies in leather jackets who are not very subtly scoping the passing pedestrians and vehicles.
They’re not Ettore’s men.
My guess is they’re Russians come to check what the fuck happened to their companions.
I don’t look away fast enough. My lip is busted, and they just caught me eyeballing them.
The one on the right lifts a cell phone to his ear. The other is reaching into his pocket, probably for a fucking gun.
Slick move, Christian.
“Move!”
I shove Carmela and Vince toward the parking garage door as I hear the screech of tires behind me—they have run into the road, guns waving.
Fucking Russians.
We’re so fucked.
Inside, a short corridor leads to another door and access to the ground floor parking garage. “Keep going!”
We’ve barely gotten through the second door when I hear them slam through the main entrance, hot on our heels.
I shove the door shut and brace against the back.
“Your car?”
“There.” He stabs a finger toward the opposite side.
“Good. Go. These guys will fuck you up just for being near her. Take her. When you get to the club, ask for Leon or Dante Barone. Say Christian sent you. He’ll clear yours and your girlfriend’s debts.”
“Christian!” she screams. “What are you doing? Come with us.”
Vince feels the urgency even if Carmela is not there yet. He grabs her arm and yanks her toward the car. Any other time and I’d break his fucking hand for putting it on her.
A thud and sudden weight slams into the door behind me. It tosses me forward a foot before I can shove it into the jam.
They’re in the car. The engine starts with a roar just as another, heavier pounding nearly tosses me to the floor.
With the next thud, instead of trying to brace it, I let the momentum carry it open and then slam it shut again. It connects with a solid mass.
A grunt of pain follows.
Someone curses.
Tires screech as Vince pulls away. I swing the door all the way open and slam my palm into the solar plexus of the nearest piece of shit. It takes the wind out of him. His companion gets my knee in his face, and he drops with a high-pitched scream that is fucking music.
They’re both lying in the doorway now, scrambling to get up. I grip the door and slam it into them in a frenzy until the intense exertion brings me up for air.
They’re not moving, and blood is splattered all over the place.
A car swings into the garage from the street and swerves to a stop in front of us while I’m still trying to snatch my breath.
All four doors fly open, and men surge out.
At the front is Jero, his face a stone mask.
I’ve got nothing. No weapons. I won’t take on four of Ettore’s men—I doubt I could take on Jero right now.
“You fucked up, mate,” he says stalking me down.
The last thing I see is his fist coming for my face before the lights go out.