SIXTEEN
Benito
E very bone in my wrist cracks when I straighten my fingers and twist my hand. The assumption has always been that any Italian working within the city belongs to our establishment. The theory couldn’t be any more wrong. Yes, there have been many a family settle within the suburbs who have hereditary links to our dynasty, but it appears there are just as many who aren’t.
Outliers. Outsiders who’ve found each other and started something new. Something less traditional and less respectful from what the guy strung in the stables says.
Within our organization walls, we have standards. Morals? Sometimes. But we respect those around us, including our adversaries, until they become enemies. Family is off-limits. No man is disturbed at sacrosanct occasions such as a wedding or funeral. Age demands a unique level of respect, and our elders are treated with a little more care—a little less brutality.
If you’ve managed to make it to your seventies before betraying the family, then it’s only natural you meet a softer end.
But fuckers like this guy? I scrub the blood from under my nails while I reflect on the bullshit excuses that he cried through his broken smile. They’re all about the money and the fame. Fuck the honor.
He was right: his brother is a whole foot and a half taller than him. I’m still not convinced he isn’t connected to the shooting. He might not have been the goon who pulled the trigger, but I could place money on the fact he knows who did.
“Any breakthroughs?” Dion asks, crossing behind me to throw his soiled shirt in the wash basket.
The housekeeping staff here are the best for a reason. Blood is a fuck of a thing to get out of a fine weave.
I shake my head and sigh out my nose, inspecting the cracks in my hands.
“We got what we needed anyway.”
Yeah, we did. But I couldn’t give a fuck about the names of the fuckers dealing on our streets. They would have tripped up sooner rather than later. I’d prefer to have a fucking name of the men who are overdue a visit from The Janitor. Me.
Theirs are at least two twisted souls I’d take great pleasure in snuffing out.
“Nastasya wants you to call her again.” Dion slides my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
I shake my head, eyes wide as I shrug.
“I don’t know what the fuck about.” He lifts one eyebrow. “What am I? Your secretary?”
I snort a laugh. I’d pay him to be just so I could see the asshole in a skirt.
“Handle her with care.” Dion slaps a friendly hand on my shoulder while I dry my hands.
I bristle at the inference that I would have handled her any other way. Well, wait. I did. Fuck. The past is the past. I didn’t break her heart on purpose; I broke it trying to save it.
“You want me to let that fucker loose?” My brother jerks his head toward the stables.
We’ve never had a horse set a single goddamn hoof on the property. The stone building is far more functional in other ways.
I shake my head and bring one hand to my mouth, fingers clamping shut.
“Fine. But if he shits himself while you’re starving him, you can clean it up.”
I rub my fingertips together.
“We don’t pay them nearly enough,” Dion quips, alluding to the staff.
Pointer finger extended, I gesture to my eyes and mouth before checking my reflection in the night-blackened window. We pay them enough to keep them quiet. I push the messy black locks on my head in some semblance of order and then turn for the kitchen. The smells of fresh-baked apples have tormented me from the moment I stepped inside to wash up. The drive home isn’t long, but it’s far enough to regret not stealing a piece before I go.
“I’ll let Vinny know the stall is occupied.” Dion gives me a raised hand in a wave as he heads in the opposite direction toward where Papa’s security is housed onsite.
The aroma of fresh apple shortcake and muffins has my stomach growling in appreciation as I push the door open to the sizeable commercial-style kitchen. The chef isn’t always in; Mama has him take two days off mid-week, insisting he’s around for the more common time to entertain—the weekend. But when the guy is here, he’s sure spoiled for state-of-the-art equipment.
My mother loves her fine dining. My father loves to keep my mother happy.
“I saved you some,” Klaus says in his thick European accent. “I saw the car out front and figured you were around.” He slides a pre-packed container toward me.
I give him a nod and then lift the corner to release the warm aroma. Perfection.
“Will you continue to be onsite more regularly?” The septuagenarian asks. “I’ll order extra for you this week if you are.”
I stare at the pristine stainless counter he wipes anyway and shake my head. As long as my uncle makes these halls his daily haunt, I won’t be here. There’s only so many times I can be in the vicinity of the asshole within a month before I start to plot murder.
“Well, if you ever want more, you let me know. I’m happy to make some special.” The man gives me a wink, friendly like a grandfather would.
I return the gesture with a tight nod and leave the room before my lack of words makes the situation any more complicated than it needs to be. I don’t necessarily miss conversation; I realized how pointless it was when people failed to put in the extra effort to find another way to initiate an exchange. But I miss the intellect of it. How sparring viewpoints with another person can unlock new thoughts within my mind. My thoughts are insipidly linear now that nobody can nudge the process in a new direction.
I could have learned sign language, but that felt too much like admitting defeat. My inability to talk doesn’t make me less, and it’s best our foes don’t see my handicap that way. By learning a widely recognized form of communication, I would have given our adversaries an unfair advantage over me. My gestures may not be conventional, but at least they’re mine.
Private.
For only those I care enough about to know.
I set the fresh baking on the passenger seat and start the Land Rover. Placing my phone in the cradle, I tap through to Messenger and stare at the call history. Do I need to inform her that I’m ready to call again? Give her time to prepare. Prepare for what, fuckhead? I’m slated to marry the girl; if she can’t stomach the thought of me seeing her when she isn’t put together and at her best then we have serious issues.
I hit the video camera icon and then pull out of my father’s driveway. I didn’t bother to see him or Mama before I left. When I can’t physically voice my farewell, it seems redundant. They know I was here, and they know I left. They know I plan to come back… eventually.
“Hey.”
I gaze at the phone as I reach the road and shift my foot to the brake. She’s fucking breathtaking—unkempt and ready for bed. Blonde waves cascade around her face and shoulders, a satiny gown draped over milky skin. I marvel at how much softer her eyes are when she doesn’t line them in harsh blacks and grays.
“Was he the guy?” Nastasya rests her head on one hand, seemingly curled in an ornate armchair.
I shake my head and then ease my foot off the brake.
“Damn.” She sighs.
Her gaze bores into me despite my eyes staying fixed on the darkened road.
“I’m going to be upfront here, Benito.” She smiles softly. “I don’t know how to do this, to have a one-sided conversation.”
I flick my gaze to the phone. Her chest rises and falls with a lengthy breath.
“Should I tell you what I’ve been doing since we last talked properly?” She frowns at her choice of words. “Sorry.”
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want her to feel like she must censor herself around me. This is my cross to bear, not hers.
“Do you even care what happened after we broke things off?”
I meet her pained stare, careless, while the Rover continues to rocket down the unlit semi-rural street. Yes. I nod slowly.
“I finished my studies,” she says clinically, as though reciting anecdotes to an acquaintance. “Buried myself in far too much schoolwork, so I didn’t have space to think about anything else.” She pauses long enough to have me glance her way. “Or anyone.”
I can relate.
“Papa restricted my movements after he discovered I’d snuck around without a protection detail. He never knew I was with you,” she reassures me. “He thought I was with Lana.” Her head drops in my periphery. “And then Mama passed.”
I lift my right hand and touch my chest briefly before I hover my fingertips in front of the camera as though to reach out for her. I’m sorry. I should have been there for her when she went through that pain, but maintaining our distance was the only way I knew how to keep her safe.
I never wanted her to know why I stopped talking to her, why I cut her out of my life.
I never wanted her involved.
“Since then,” she continues on an exhale. “Well, I finished my degree and obtained my paralegal qualifications. Not that it’s of any use now.” She huffs. “I’m sure Papa already has plans on when he wants me to spit out an heir.”
I smirk. I could think of worse ways for us to spend the time.
“And now.” She tosses her free hand in her lap. “I sit around and waste away my hours, waiting for when Papa next needs me to keep up appearances.” Her brow knits, and I stay at an intersection a little longer than necessary to watch her talk. “Caroline was my escape. And without her, I feel as though I lost the only lifeline I have out of this black pit.”
Again, I can relate.
I snatch the phone and relegate her to the corner of my screen while I hammer out a text message. She reaches forward to swipe at the screen while I bring her back to full view, frowning as she reads the words.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if Papa would be happy to have you here.”
I repeat the action sending her another brief sentence.
“Why?” She frowns, head tilted, while I pop the phone back in the cradle.
I bring my hands under my chin in the prayer position and softly smile. Please?
Nastasya sighs. The reticence is written in her soft gaze as she stares at something off-screen. I hurt her badly all those years ago, and instead of coming back together through our own doing, it took the meddling of our parents for us to begin the healing process.
I don’t deserve her forgiveness, but I’d sacrifice my soul to have her love again if I still had one. I’m not so sure I do after the things I’ve done.
“How far away are you?” she finally responds.
I hold up all my fingers, one eye squinted a little in a grimace.
“Ten minutes.” Stas worries her bottom lip between pearly-white teeth. “It might be closer to fifteen before I’m ready.” She glances down at herself. “I need to get dressed.”
I’d take her however I get her.
“Whatever you do,” she says sternly, rising from the chair. “Don’t come near the house. I’ll meet you out there.”
I end the chat and slot the vehicle into gear. The tires kick up stones when I veer onto the side of the intersection and spin around to go back the way I came.
Forgiveness is a long road paved with all the little things we do to restore lost trust. The quicker Nastasya and I work through this shit, the better because I’ve wasted enough of my life without the one thing that makes me feel alive.
Her.