Chapter 2
Laura
When the door closes behind Pierce, I can still taste him—bitter and alive—on my tongue.
I burrow deeper into the sheets and drag the comforter over my head like a veil, as if I can keep him here a minute longer.
The radiator hisses; my phone vibrates mournfully on the nightstand.
I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks like I’m tracking time by fractures.
Pierce said he’d call on his lunch break.
He promised, and he doesn’t break those—never has, not even when I begged him to.
The sun claws at the frost on my window, but the light is thin, anemic. My limbs won’t move. I don’t want to ruin the perfect geometry of his outline on the sheets. I roll into it and inhale. After a while, his scent fades into detergent and skin and the ghost of last night’s bourbon.
My heart is a cracked egg in my chest, the yolk leaking in slow panic.
I promised Pierce I’d do it today. Face my father and make it final.
No more family business, no more blood on my hands, no more late-night pickups with pistols in my lap.
Just me and Pierce against the world, or whatever is left after the world finishes gnawing me down to bone.
I peel myself out of bed. The apartment is silent except for the muted scuffle of pigeons on the sill, the refrigerator’s bronchial hum.
Even my geriatric cat, Pinky, is a statue—coiled on the windowsill, all-seeing eye.
He watches me coolly, as if judging my weakness, or maybe just deciding if I’m worth following to the kitchen.
The shower is my confessional. I step inside and crank the water until it scalds my skin pink, and stand there as steam devours the glass.
With every second I linger, I imagine my resolve washing down the drain, spinning toward the ocean where it can’t hurt anyone.
Sometimes I even pretend it’s blood, that it’s not mine, that it belongs to all the men I’ve put under. Someone should mourn them.
When I finally get out, my hands won’t stop shaking.
I blow-dry my hair with militaristic precision and line my eyes with black so sharp it hurts to blink.
I slide on a cashmere turtleneck. Deferential.
Respectable. Father doesn’t abide vulgarity or carelessness.
He considers both weaknesses, and I am not allowed those.
The drive to Brooklyn Heights is a rolling mausoleum of cancelled plans.
I see my own reflection in the black window, ruthlessly pale, lips pressed together as if holding my tongue hostage.
I answer work emails with trembling fingers.
My phone autocorrects “Pierce” to “Peace,” which is either poetic or a harbinger, depending on how you tilt your head.
Dominic Stasio’s brownstone is a beast of a place—dark brick, leaded glass, heavy with generations of failure and triumph.
Two men in Parkas nod as I walk up the stoop.
The inside is all wood and velvet, spiced with cigar smoke and the faintest hint of bleach.
Father is waiting in the front room. He sits behind a desk the size of a sarcophagus, wearing a navy suit and a smile that never unclenches.
“Laura,” he says. “Sit.”
He sips espresso like a cardinal, biding his time. I can feel the blood draining from my knuckles as I grip the chair arms.
“I want out,” I say, before he can try and charm me with small talk.
Father sets down his demitasse with surgical precision. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I’m not here for chit-chat.” My voice is a wire on the verge of snapping. “I’m here to tell you I’m done. No more collections, no more dead drops, no more cleaning up after him.” I won’t say Pierce’s name. That would be a declaration of war.
He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “It’s not as simple as you pretend, Laura. The world doesn’t snap its fingers and let you go. You know that.”
I look him in the eye. “I’m not asking permission. But I am asking you to make it easier.” My lower lip trembles, and I let it. Maybe he’ll mistake the fear for daughterly affection.
He smiles then, soft and understanding, the way he used to when I was six and convinced there were monsters under my bed. “Let me tell you something about monsters, cara mia,” he says. “They’re never content with just the closet.”
“I know.”
He stands, walks around the desk, and touches my cheek. For a second, I think he might strike me, but his fingers are gentle. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“Then let me go.” I lean into his hand, desperate and small. “Please, Papa.”
He sighs, long and theatrical. “You deserve a real life. If this boy makes you happy, what father could say no?” There is love in his voice.
I want to believe it. I do. He kisses my forehead and sends me home with a promise.
“Don’t worry, Laura. I’ll take care of everything. Go start your tomorrow.”
I collapse into the cab and sob until we cross the river.
Grief, relief, hope—they all taste the same on the way up.
In the apartment, I clean feverishly. I throw out the bourbon, scrub the kitchen, and hang cheap garlands from the window.
I buy groceries, the good pasta, his favorite cheese, and a two-pound steak.
Candles, too. I arrange them along the mantle and light them all, just to make the dingy place look less like a crime scene and more like a home.
Pierce is supposed to be home by seven. I change into red silk and dab perfume on my wrists. I count the seconds until I hear his tread on the stairs. Six forty comes, then seven. I check my phone. No missed call, no text. I pour wine and wait. The candles burn down. The food congeals on the stove.
By nine, the apartment is so quiet I can hear the snow falling outside. I walk to the window, press my forehead to the cold glass, and say his name out loud, just to feel the syllable break in my throat. The city is a veil of white static, swallowing everything.
At ten, I blow out the last candle and let the dark come for me.
I crawl into bed, still in my red dress, still hopeful, if only because I am too exhausted to mourn.
Pinky leaps up beside me, purring like something is right with the world.
In my last waking moment, I imagine the future as a sheet of black ice, and myself stepping into its center, unafraid, waiting for Pierce to follow.