Chapter 28 #2
Emory chewed on the prospect. It wasn’t as if bloodlust didn’t tempt him too. He kept alive the image of Amelia in the backseat of an SUV with a gun to her head and the kid’s hand clamped over her mouth.
That keepsake became his North Star. Guided by its light, Emory walked his own path toward vengeance, tantalized by its violent end.
He would carve out the boy’s eyes and tongue but leave his other senses.
The kid could listen to Emory sharpening his knife, feel the strips of skin leaving his body, taste his own flesh.
In the courtyard, wind ripped the honeysuckle vines from the stucco wall and flower petals swirled in the squall. Amelia loved those flowers. In the kitchen, she hummed as she dried dishes, the familiar melody comforting and sweet.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got plans tonight. But make it memorable. You get me?”
Emory had talked in riddles for so long. The true meaning of things was a dead language. Corey translated just fine and expelled a gritty laugh.
“Oh yeah. We got plans too.”
“When you’re done, find Torres. I want everything he knows about Ivan; where he is, what’s next. I don’t care how long it takes or what you have to do. You understand?”
“A few are rolling on him now.”
“Good. After Gio’s funeral, you’ll take over Las Vegas post. Disco will report to you. Pete can cover your territory until Jack and I come up with a permanent solution.”
Silence crowded the line long enough for Corey to light up a cigarette and take a heavy drag.
“Disco ain’t gonna like it.”
“I don’t give a fuck what Disco likes!” Emory boomed.
“You think I care what he wants? You think his ego means shit to me? I should exile him to Redding post and be done with it.” Emory gripped the window frame as thunder rattled the pane.
“Tell Disco to get his house in order and call me when it’s done. ”
“Roger. Rest easy, Chief. We’ll get it sorted.”
Emory ended the call with grim satisfaction. He could stomp the heads off snakes, but treachery was a leviathan he couldn’t slay alone. That meant identifying the trustworthy in the ranks.
Back in the kitchen, he sat at the island across from Amelia but stewed in his anger.
“Everything okay?” she asked as she dried a wooden salad bowl.
“Just tying up loose ends,” he replied, a bluff she saw right through.
“You’re brilliant. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Amelia put on a darling smile, though concern stirred in her eyes. Somewhere she learned to walk the tightrope between asking too many and too few questions. Mirabelle must’ve taught her that.
“And you’re incredible,” Emory said. Though entirely sincere, it was meant to redirect. “Thank you for dinner. It was also incredible.”
“I’m happy you liked it.” Amelia retrieved a pot from the drying rack and returned to the island. “The key is to roast the tomatoes and garlic for the sauce. Oh, and the secret ingredient is pancetta.”
Emory laughed, his dour mood dissolving. “Isn’t the secret ingredient supposed to be a secret?”
Amelia shrugged and stared dreamily at the ceiling as she dried the pot. So many moments with her were worthy of committing to memory. That was one—how beautiful she was without make up on, her lips stained red from wine, the way she looked at him as if she was memorizing him too.
“It’s my mom’s recipe. When she met my dad, he was awful at taking care of himself, so cooking was her love language. She taught me everything I know.”
“About cooking?”
“That and how to patiently love a hard man.”
Amelia set the pot aside and contemplated the courtyard where the wind toppled a glazed pot. It rolled, unbroken, on its side. Lost in thought, she wrung the dish towel in her hands. Tears welled, but she quickly wiped them away before they spilled down her cheeks.
“Sorry. I’m fine most of the time, but the pain surfaces so fast. There’s nothing like it.”
Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to temper her grief. It never worked that way. Emory stood and circled the island. He lifted her to the counter and wrapped her in a strong embrace. Amelia held on tight as if she wanted to fall right through.
Cheek to cheek, Emory rocked her in his arms. “I know it hurts. I know it does.”
“All I have are memories of her. What if I forget? Then she’ll really be gone.”
Emory combed his fingers through her hair, the strands wavy from the kitchen’s heat. Amelia gazed up at him with tears clinging to her long lashes. He’d once responded to her hurt with callous disinterest. To think of it filled him with shame.
“You won’t,” he said and kissed each of her tear-stained cheeks.
“Did you?”
Emory shook his head. “I still remember my mom. You’ll remember yours too.”
Where he’d never been elegant with words, Emory could rely on touch to convey what was in his heart.
With a hand at Amelia’s cheek, his thumb traced her lips plump and swollen from crying.
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers in what might’ve been a kiss too hard, but Amelia softened it as she sunk into him.
His tongue parted her lips with no cajoling, but her fingertips stroking his chest reminded him to go slow and savor. Savor, he did. Her mouth was sweet as he kissed her deeply.
“What a poem you are,” he whispered, love drunk and languishing. “I wanna hold you. Do you wanna do that, go lay down together?”
When Amelia nodded, Emory lifted her from the counter and led her by the hand to his bedroom.