Chapter 25 #2
I stared at him. He needed a good reality check. “Are you on the lamb?” It was hard to keep a straight face at my pun. Yet I managed. Barely.
One of the little bastards bleated, which made me lose my shit. But the tears were also too close, so I sobered. “Bridget lied her ass off to keep your name out of that mess with Pornstach.”
For the first time since I walked up, he looked me in the eye. “She shouldn’t have. What did that cost her?”
“A calling. Life on the light side of the force, that sort of thing. But I think she’s happier now. Not many people can suffer a stick up their ass for an entire lifetime.”
He smiled. “Speaking of…” His voice trailed off, letting me pick up his unspoken question.
“It’s-a-me-Mario is his usual surly self. My sister is happy, though.”
Ringo dipped his head to hide his expression, and yet I caught his smile. “Does he still frown when you call him that?”
“Every damn time.”
Firenze snorted, reminding us both we had an audience. When we turned to glare at him, he composed himself. With his finger pointed toward the the ridge, he said, “I’ll be over there. Scream if you need me.”
Ringo waited until he was out of earshot. “Seriously, Ellie. You wasted a trip.”
“I stepped in goat shit. More than once. Isn’t that worth more than what you’re giving me?”
“I can’t give you a life.”
I sat on a rock, checking the surface first. I also checked the crevices and overhang for snakes. Finding none, I crossed my legs and studied him.
He’d grown a full beard. “Are you going to keep growing that scruff and become a hermit?”
“You know what I do.” He tossed a rock he’d picked out of the dirt.
“You’re the best hitman I know.”
His eyes shot to me. “That’s the point, Ellie.
I kill people. I can’t marry you.” He didn’t pause long enough for me to disagree with him.
He stood up and gestured at the horizon.
“Where are we going to live? You can’t stay at the bar with your friends because I can’t live in Chicago.
You’re not going to want to live here because it’s too… rustic for you.”
“I’m marrying you.”
He frowned and lifted his cap to scratch at his hair. That had grown longer, too. “You’re not listening.”
“I stepped in goat shit for you. GOAT SHIT!” My voice echoed against the hills.
“There’s goat shit on my shoes, Ringo.”
“That’s the point. Eventually with me, you’ll step in shit. Those nightmares you have? Try multiplying them by a thousand if someone wants me gone. You’ll be in danger. You’ll be watched just like you were when you were a kid.”
“Why are you telling me what I want and don’t want?
And fuck you if you’re not going back to Chicago, you have a family to run.
Don-fucking-Conti-Messina was in my bar trying to find you.
You’re lucky I’m a damn good liar and told him Don Manca had a job for you because he was ready to do something and I don’t fucking know what. ”
Firenze stepped into the clearing, “Everything okay? I heard yelling.”
“Goat shit.”
Ringo ignored my outburst. “She’s just working stuff out. It’s cool.”
Firenze turned but Ringo stopped him.
“Hey, you were supposed to let me know if there were people coming after me. Ellie says they aren’t.”
“You said, warn you if they come after. Not tell you you’re a free man. Be clear.”
Ringo held up a finger. “Listen, just because you got promoted doesn’t mean you get to be a smart-ass to me. I can still slice you up faster than Loppa and his favorite Zimino.”
“What’s Zimino?” I asked.
“Intestines. You cut it with a scissors.” Firenze’s comment made me gag.
“Great. Bad enough you eat that awful cheese, now I have that image in my head.” My stomach didn’t want to settle.
“Go away,” Ringo grumbled.
“Me or her?” Firenze asked.
Ringo stood up. “Are you sure you brought the right one up here?”
Now he was just being mean.
“Of course I am. Allie walks around the goat shit.”
“I hate you.” I didn’t say it with malice, but Firenze chose the wrong time to mess with me.
“You’ll love me eventually,” Firenze shot back.
“Over my dead body,” Ringo warned.
“That can be arranged.” Firenze’s voice was colder than I’d ever heard.
“Not likely!” Ringo’s raised voice spooked the nearest clump of goats. They scampered up the slope and stared down on us from the rocks.
“Boys, stop.” I stood up and pointed at Ringo. “You, come with me.” I took a step and the distinct squelch of poop rapidly expanding under my toes made me cringe. “SHIT! Fucking goats!”
Both men laughed.
“Where are we going, Ellie?” Ringo asked.
“Home. That’s where. I’m not going inside whatever that is.” I pointed at the shack.
“It’s cozy in there. I remember this time when Maria—”
“Shut up, Firenze.” Ringo picked me up.
“What are you doing?” I grabbed his shoulders so I wouldn’t slip out of his arms and land on my ass.
“Making sure you don’t step in shit.”
“Put me down,” I begged.
“No.”
“You can’t carry me all the way down the mountain.”
Ringo stopped walking. “The hell I can’t.”
I pointed out the obvious. “It’s steep. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He set me down and caressed my scarred thigh. “Better me than you.”
My chin quivered. “You mean that?”
“Always.” His cheeks stood out in sharp hollows as he gritted his teeth.
I touched them, enjoying the rough hair along his jaw. “Johnny couldn’t grow a beard.”
His eyebrow shot up.
“I’m not comparing you. You’re far superior.”
But I was worried. He’d lost weight, but honed his muscle since we’d been apart. He was more feral and less happy. I could see it in his eyes. There was sorrow there that hadn’t fled despite the soft touches we simply couldn’t stop.
His fingers touched my lips. “I’ve thought about you every day.”
I nodded. I had, too. “I’ll make you a deal. Help me but don’t carry me.”
“I want to carry you.”
That was an opening I had to exploit. “You can carry me over the threshold on our wedding day.”
He sucked in a breath and held it. Softly he said, “When will that be?”
“How does Christmas in Ireland sound?”
His jaw flexed, and I caught the hint of a smile. “Honeymoon?”
I weighed the logistics. “Chicago?”
He made a face. “It’ll be cold.”
“Then we’ll flip them. I want the gang there. No streaming this time. But we have to figure out coverage for New Year’s. That’s the bar’s busiest night.”
He chewed on his lower lip. “Conti was looking for me?”
I nodded.
“Does Don Manca know that?”
“What? Do I have to report everything to him?” I was being sarcastic, but apparently neither man understood me well enough yet to tell. They both answered, “yes” in unison.
Ringo asked another question, “I thought St. Patrick’s Day was your busiest night?”
“Oh sweetie, you’ve not seen anything like New Year’s in Chi-town. We’re going to set up a blues band in the basement.”
His eyes bored into mine. “You walked all the way up a mountain, for me?”
“And stepped in goat shit.”
“And you’re okay with me being a hitman?”
“Absolutely. I don’t faint at the sight of blood anymore.”
He studied me. “Not at all?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.” I lied.
He smiled, the light finally returning to his eyes. “I love you.”
Good. Because my leg hurt like a mother.