27. Marco
Marco
I’ve missed this place. Ice clinks as I push my empty glass across the countertop, and the scent of stale cigarette butts calms my frayed nerves. Vapor closes soon, but this isn’t my first final call and it won’t be the last.
A woman approaches me and trails her hand down my bicep, but I shake her off and order another round. Normally, I would jump at the chance to lose myself in someone, but the thought doesn’t appeal to me tonight.
Not just tonight, if I’m being honest. Ever since I married Bianca, my interest in other women has been all but nonexistent.
This sort of place, so far removed from the life I knew or the shame I carry, once brought me joy.
So why aren’t I happy yet?
I know the truth, even if I hate acknowledging it. There’s no forgetting Armani. Not now. Probably not ever.
But I can try. If I can erase all traces of the man I used to be, then maybe—
“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you!”
A hand alights on my shoulder, whipping me around in my seat as some guy, irate and eager for violence, screams at me. Did I do something? I can’t remember him, but he must recognize me.
Let’s fix that.
My fist connects with the side of his jaw, and I follow up with a second powerful punch. The stranger buckles under the assault, gravity dragging him into a set of tables next to the stage. I remain glued to him, my fist striking flesh again and again.
For a split second, Bianca’s disapproving face flashes before my eyes, causing me to hesitate.
Shouts ring out, and I grunt as a pair of bouncers grapple me.
I don’t fight. Instead, I let them haul me out onto the crowded sidewalk.
They drop me unceremoniously onto the concrete, where my head strikes the ground, the dull thud reverberating through my bones.
My aching skull is still recovering from my last concussion, and yet here I am, flirting with another.
A car pulls up, and the image spins as I gag and press my head into the ground.
Everything stinks. Unwashed bodies, stale liquor, an undercurrent of piss where someone relieved themselves in the gutter…
Luca should have already fetched me. He and Zo trade off on picking me up whenever I’m out at a bar or club.
I’m pretty sure the bartenders call them as soon as I walk through the door just in case I cause trouble.
The car door opens, and the clack of heels on the asphalt brings my head up.
I don’t believe she’s here until she’s right in front of me.
I visually trace the long length of her legs and the way the simple sheath of her espresso-colored sleeveless dress conforms to her body as she cocks her hip to one side and folds her arms beneath her breasts.
My tongue doesn’t want to cooperate, and my voice scrapes my throat raw when I speak. “Go away.”
Of course she’d show up when I’m laid out on the curb, bloody knuckled and pathetic. I stiffen, waiting for her to pass judgment and add to the crushing weight of guilt that the anniversary of Armani’s death has drudged up.
I thought I could get through the night without thinking about Armani at all, but that’s a kindness I don’t deserve.
Bianca crouches, folding her dress under her knees “Get up, Argento.”
I balk at the order, rearing back until my balance betrays me and I topple over. I stop myself in time to prevent a headfirst dive into a trash pile, but when my hand and arm land in some wet and sour-smelling substance, my stomach threatens to revolt.
“Fuck.” My shoulders sag in defeat. I’m afraid of Bianca’s reaction, but when I finally raise my head, quiet patience rather than disgust fills her expression.
“Marco, I want to go home. Come with me.” Her gentle croon acts like a balm to my weary soul.
Home.
I want to go home too. More importantly, I want to go home with her. Shamefaced, I sway. It’d be so easy to collapse onto one side and go to sleep, but I haven’t sunk that low.
Not yet, anyway.
Bianca brushes my hair back from my forehead, and for a heartbeat, my eyes close. “I can’t carry you. You’ll have to get up by yourself.”
Right.
Groaning the entire time, I slowly climb to my feet, nearly falling over until Bianca appears at my side. Even though I’m three sheets to the wind, she’s still willing to help me, so I block her with my clean hand. I’ll crawl home before I let her touch me while reeking of city sidewalk trash.
I wanted to drag her down but not this far, not into the muck and the filth. Somehow, I manage to get into the car, where Bianca buckles me in. My eyes drift shut as she gets into the driver’s seat. Enveloped by her scent, by the knowledge of her warmth within arm’s reach, I drift off to sleep.
The passage of time makes itself known via flickers of sensation.
Zo leading me into the bathroom and dousing me in soap and water.
Bianca’s hands scrubbing me clean until Zo can come collect me from the porcelain tub.
His muttered curses as he shoves my arms through the sleeves of an oversized Swarmer shirt.
“You’re supposed to take the clothes off, Zo, not put them on.” I close my eyes, scowling. “This is why you’re not getting laid, man. This is basic stuff.”
I swear he mutters for me to shut the fuck up before dumping me on the bed. “Gentle, gentle, gentle.” Someone listens to my pleading because when a blanket drapes over me, I’m surrounded by the aroma of plum blossoms and the tension in my neck and spine eases.
When the scent recedes, my eyes snap open.
Through vision blurred by exhaustion, I watch Bianca and Zo converse in low voices before she shoots him a rare smile, her expression thawing with gratitude in a way I’ve never witnessed.
Jealousy rockets through my bloodstream, at war with the whiskey, and as she shifts to walk away, I snatch her wrist. “Stay.”
Bianca hesitates, then nods shortly at Zo, who’s hovering by the door. The other man gives me a once-over, shakes his head, and leaves, encasing the two of us in silence.
Then the room lurches, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Why are you being so nice? Are you about to kill me?”
“Of course not.” Her laugh sounds strained, but that’s probably just the alcohol playing tricks on me.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go back to being mean to you tomorrow.
” She places a hand on my forehead, and the world steadies under her cool fingertips.
“You don’t seem like you’d be able to handle it tonight. ”
She’s right about that much.
Her fingers trace the curve of my cheek. “What happened back there? With Sergio?”
“Nothing.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Seeing Sergio always reminds me of what a piece of shit I am. That’s all.” I peek at her, searching for signs of her usual disapproval and finding understanding instead.
“You’re not a piece of shit, Marco.” Bianca lowers herself to the edge of the bed, her hand going to my hair and sifting through the wet strands. “You’re just lost.”
Shamelessly, I burrow my nose into her wrist. “Lost, huh? I never planned to get married. Bad things happen to the people I care about, Bianca. It’s a mathematical certainty, and I’m the common denominator.
After my mamma died, Gio spent every waking moment trying to root the weakness out of me.
He treated my grief like a disease he had to carve out of my flesh before it infected the family. ”
A lump swells in my throat. “I never got the chance to mourn her because even my tears were used as proof of how ‘soft’ I was.”
I’ve never been this raw with anyone before, not even Dante.
His grief was his own, which left me alone with mine.
I clench my shaking hands into fists, my throat so tight that it hurts to speak.
“Do you have any idea how fucked that is? Telling an eight-year-old he can’t cry for his own mother?
She died the day before my birthday. Went out to get more mascarpone to make tiramisu because I insisted I had to have some, and she just never came home again. ”
“Ah. So that’s why the dessert isn’t allowed in the house?” Bianca places a tentative hand on the back of mine, those sharp brown eyes gentle with understanding.
I shove away the memory of those early days after we lost Dulce. It isn’t a wound I’m ready to reopen.
“What happened that night with Armani?” Her question is hesitant, but I’m in too deep to stop talking now.
More than that, there’s a part of me that wants her to know.
If Bianca, the perfect, not-so-icy princess, condemns me, then maybe I can finally stop hoping for the salvation that will never come.
I force myself to sit up as my stomach heaves.
Bianca passes me a glass of water, and I take a long drink before handing it back.
“We were intercepting an unvetted shipment of military-grade optics at the railyards in Long Island. I put Armani on the rear perimeter on purpose to keep him clear of the breach, but I was drunk when I mapped the exit routes. If I had been sober…hell, if I were Dante…I never would have brought him along on a blind drop. I would have recognized the trap before we walked right into it.”
I try to laugh but choke instead. “I spiraled for a while after that. Dante and I got into it the night he was kidnapped by Enzo’s cronies, and I always wonder if he would have been taken if he hadn’t been distracted by my bullshit.”
Bianca gasps at the mention of Enzo, and I wonder how much she knows, if anything, about her uncle’s extracurricular activities. “Marco—”
I cut her off before the sympathy in her voice lowers my self-worth even more and haul her into my lap.
She hesitates then relaxes all at once, shedding something within herself just for me.
My arm circles her waist, and I tuck close, pressing my forehead against hers until she meets my eyes.
“When I fuck up, people get hurt, Bianca.” I study her expression, unwilling to let her dismiss my words. “One day, that might mean you too.”
Even after all that, she’s unflinching as her lips brush mine in silent comfort. “I can take care of myself, Argento.”
I can’t imagine anything or anyone getting the better of her, not even my shitty luck.
Knowing she might just survive me makes picking at the scab of past hurts easier to stomach.
It’s like sitting in the confessional on a Sunday.
If I give my sins to her, maybe her judgment will be enough to absolve me of them.
I breathe her in, and the nausea that once assailed me goes quiet.
“Armani, Dante, your mother…” She pulls back to examine me, her brows furrowed and her gaze pained.
“None of those things were your fault. Dulce died when you were a little boy. She already had a target on her back the second she married Gio, and there’s nothing you could have done differently that would have saved her. ”
Grasping both cheeks, she searches my gaze.
“Your mother was a Conti. She knew what it would mean to reject our family the way that she did, and she did it anyway. She chose this life…chose you and your brother and your father…knowing full well that it could lead to her death. It’s not your place to shoulder the blame for that. ”
Her declaration stuns me, and I blink back the sudden stinging before closing my eyes. “That’s not fair, principessa.”
Her fingers trail into my hair. “What isn’t fair?”
“If the things she did aren’t my fault, why are the things your father does yours?”
Bianca falls into a loaded silence, but I don’t open my eyes again. The spinning is less than before, but I’m too fucking spent to stay awake any longer. When she shifts, my arms flex and the command that follows is hoarse with exhaustion. “Don’t go.”
Only when I know she’ll remain do I let myself pass out.