TWENTY-FIVE
Nastasya
I didn’t want to kill her. Sure, the woman said a few not-so-pleasant things to us, but it wasn’t her fault those jackasses chose to be in her house today. Or maybe it was? She could have been the one to invite them over for some weird drugged-up fuck-fest. But she wasn’t there when Caroline died.
Their crimes weren’t hers.
All the same, it seemed wrong to allow Benito to be the one to pull the trigger when she sat there naked as the day she was born and vulnerable. I can’t explain why, but it felt right that another woman should do it. Respectful.
You did good.
The device sits on the Defender’s floor for me to read. I glance up from where I clean my hands at the back of the vehicle—still shaking a solid fifteen minutes after we left the house—and meet his concerned stare. I didn’t bother to question why Benito had a plastic clip box full of medical equipment, including alcohol swabs; it seemed obvious after what we had done.
“What happens to their bodies now?”
He reaches across and brings the phone to his side of the vehicle, using his index finger to tap out a new sentence at impossible speed. I suppose when texting is the only way you can talk, you get pretty good at it.
The city cleans them up. Labeled overdoses. Cremated before anyone can ask questions.
I drop a huff out my nose and return to scrubbing at the blood in my cuticle. “How much do you pay the cops?” The spot of red refuses to shift. “Must make a decent dent in the quarterly earnings.”
Benito shakes his head and then turns to sit on the back of the vehicle. He reaches for my hand and sets it on his thigh, trapping my touch in place while he hunts for what he needs. I watch as he clicks open another compartment in the fishing tackle-style box and removes a sharp manicure tool. He uses the blade-like end with care and precision to scrape away the dead skin that refuses to yield its evidence.
“You think of everything, don’t you?” I whisper the words, in awe of the man he’s become.
He replies with a simple rumble in the back of his throat.
“When did you first kill someone?”
Benito lifts his head, piercing me with his gaze before he looks away to stash the tool. I lift my hand to inspect his work, amazed that he removed the blood.
He doesn’t answer.
“Was it before we broke up? Were you a killer then?”
He whips his head high and frowns. No.
“How soon after?” I let him put the kit away and get to his feet.
Benito runs his top teeth across his bottom lip and sighs.
What does it matter?
He punctuates the typed question with a single raised eyebrow.
“It doesn’t.” I rub my hand, hiding it against my stomach.
He coaxes me to look at him with gentle fingers beneath my chin. A soft kiss. And then one raised finger, which he tips to the right, away from us.
“One year?” I frown.
He shakes his head.
“Month?” My pitch rises.
He sighs.
“A week?” No way. “A week after we broke up?”
He nods and then reaches for the phone to explain what he can’t through gestures alone.
I was angry and in pain. Physical and emotional.
Jesus—my heart.
Papa thought it might help.
“Okay.” I lift both hands and take a step back. “That’s a little fucked up. I mean, most parents would take their kid to therapy, not offer up a man for the slaughter.”
He chuckles; the grin he sports makes him seem positively boyish.
It wasn’t like that.
My smile fades, yet I can’t look away from his crystal blue eyes. His features incite thoughts of beauty, innocence, and respect. The way he holds his mouth, the curl of his soft lips—he’s a man built for love.
And yet, he kills.
“What do you intend to do about Ignazio?” I drop my gaze, fighting the nausea that rises just mentioning the asshole’s name.
I have no doubt the guy is involved in my murder attempt after what Benito revealed this morning, but the question is, why? What does he stand to gain from killing me? It couldn’t be related to that final night at the warehouse because he didn’t know I was there. And even if he did, why not kill me nine and a half years ago? Why wait until now?
Perhaps he wants a war with our house, but he seemed okay enough with my father being amongst the De Santis walls the other night. If he wanted us ruined, he could have shot my father where he stood. But he didn’t. And as I raise my eyes to the man I’m promised to marry, I can’t help but wonder. How much does he know about what motivates his uncle?
I trusted Benito once, and he tore that gift to shreds. Who’s to say that the man Benito is now couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do worse?
His stare remains fixed, yet the focus seems far away while he slowly turns a wet wipe in his hands. He chooses his words carefully, or perhaps he doesn’t know what to say. Either way, he needs to give me something before he lets me return home.
I step back with a sigh and lift my head to take in the stark profile of the distant hills. Hills that house Caroline’s estate. Hills where she died. Benito parked outside the city limit to clean away the evidence of where we’ve been. I wasn’t sure if it was his way of keeping me for a little longer or because he wanted to avoid another run-in with my father. I can’t decide what I want, either. The lion’s share intends to head home, seek refuge in my room, and sleep it off. But a part of me longs to stay out here a little longer because once I do step inside the sanctuary of my bedroom, I know I’ll break.
I may look fine on the outside. May be able to crack a joke. But there’s a lot of shit waiting to rain down when the distractions cease.
I turn back to Benito to find him seated on the back of the Defender again, silently watching me. He widens his legs and gestures for me to stand before him, chin slightly dipped so that the heat of his gaze sends tingles through my limbs. His focus never leaves me, tracking my movements while I shift between his knees. The outside of my thighs press against the inside of his.
Benito hangs his head further and produces his phone with a sigh. The need for it eats away at him the more we talk like this.
I don’t know what I’ll do about Naz yet. I need a while to cool down. Otherwise, I’ll blow his fucking head off before he can say a damn word.
I glance up to find Benito grinding his jaw, staring down the road.
I need him to talk so he can admit guilt.
To say I don’t want immediate vengeance would be a bald-faced lie. But I understand the situation we face. I can’t stride in and rev up at his uncle without risking what we have here. If I act impulsively and start a war before the marriage papers are signed, I might never get to try again with Benito.
I need to let him deal with this his way. His family’s way.
But if Benito takes the revelation directly to the table, then he not only risks losing his cool after the anger he’s kept inside all these years, but he risks Ignazio being prepared for the accusation and turning it around to make himself look innocent. Benito needs time to settle his emotions and look at this strategically. His uncle is a permanent fixture in his life, a daily reminder of why he sits here now, mute. If I were in Benito’s shoes, one look at the man who continually ruins my life, and I’d be liable to snap, too.
“You’ll at least tell your father?” I pass him the phone back.
Not yet. I need hard evidence before I can raise that level of betrayal.
The breath rushes from my lungs, fists tight on either side of my thighs. It doesn’t seem fair that Ignazio gets a free pass thanks to nothing more than traditional rules around respect. Why, when he’s flouted those very things? How can it be right that the bully gets away with literal murder, well, attempted murder, and the victims stay silenced through their respect for family?
For a bullshit tradition.
Ignazio must pay for what he’s done. But first, he needs to explain why he did the things he did.
“Is your silence not enough evidence in itself?” What other proof do they need?
Benito settles his pretty eyes on me, sadness darkening the hue of the blue before he drops his head to reply.
I have no tongue. Sure. But it’s his word against mine about who did it. I have no evidence that he was the one.
“Damn it.” I frown, my gaze on the clean-up kit beside us although not taking anything in. “There must be something I can do.”
What role do I play in the De Santis family politics? If I can figure that out, then I unravel Ignazio’s motive. I. Just. Don’t. Get it.
Benito’s gentle touch breaks me from my rage-induced trance. I glance down to where his hand rests on my hip, thumb massaging my waist. He draws a deep breath and then hangs his head back while he holds the phone out for me to read.
I’m sorry.
I remove the device from his hands and set it in the back of the vehicle. “You hate having to talk with your phone, huh?”
A lop-sided smile tugs at his lips, and he nods.
I step closer, dropping my chin to maintain eye contact. The afternoon air swirls down the road, occasionally blowing gusts past the Defender. One such rush of wind catches his hair, tossing the wayward strands into his eyes. I lift a hand and gently push them aside. My fingers trace the side of his face, along his jaw, and down to his neck. He’s incredible. The strength it takes to endure these frustrations day in and day out. Amazing.
His Adam’s apple bobs beneath my touch as I ask my next question. “Are you truly unable to say a single word?”
His brow dives to an angry dip between his eyes.
“I don’t mean to question your choices,” I explain. “I’m ignorant to what this means.” I run my thumb across his bottom lip. “I want to understand.”
He traps the digit, pulling the tip against his teeth. Gentle fingers circle my wrist, and he guides my hand to his lap, encasing it between both of his. I can’t tear my gaze away from the conflict across his features. Flared nostrils, a snarl to his upper lip, an elongated blink—they all say so much.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Air rushes from his nose. His grasp tightens around my hand, but I don’t think he even realizes he does it. I force my fingers between his, holding firm while he releases me with his right hand to retrieve the phone. The screen creaks with the effort he exudes through his angry thumb.
I can’t make most sounds. Consonants, anything that requires airflow like the letter S.
He hesitates, holding my gaze, nostrils flaring before he adds,
I could never say your name.
It’s selfish to feel that loss. To take the emotion from him and make the pain mine. But I’m done with putting on a brave face. His reaction blurs as my tears come freely, yet I don’t cry for the fact I’ll never hear my name on his lips. I cry that he must bear that loss of freedom. That no matter how much he might want or need to say my name, he never could.
Shit.
He nudges my arm with desperation, the movement short and jerky. Look at me, it says. Urgent as he offers his phone again.
Don’t be upset. It makes me feel bad that you hurt.
I shove the device away and climb onto his lap, looping my legs around his waist. “I hurt for you, you big dummy.” Hands on either side of his face, I dot kisses to his forehead, nose, and lips.
A gentle shake of his head, the slightest wrinkle to his brow. Why?
“I realized, just now, that giving our vows will be kind of one-sided, hey?” I try to smile, but the forced action only makes me cry harder. Damn it.
Benito jerks his head back, eyes rolling. He’s mad, and rightly so. That fucking uncle of his stripped him of his right to promise himself to the one he loves. Does he love me? Actions would say he still feels strongly for me—sure—but love is another beast altogether.
His head dips while he hammers out another line on his smartphone, shoulders heaving with the deep breaths he takes. I massage the muscles, fingertips caressing his nape and burrowing through the lengths of his ebony hair.
Then, we make our vows another way. A way that only you and I understand.
I frown, lifting my gaze back to his. “You mean, like secret sign language?”
Eyes wide, he nods.
I let the idea sink in, simmer, and roll around in the muddy parts of my mind. The longer I think about it, the more I like the suggestion.
“I think that sounds cool.” Benito matches my grin with his own. “Our language.”
He nods once, slowly, while he wraps his hand behind my neck and pulls me close. Fuck vows—I taste the promise on his lips right here, right now. He kisses me with the conviction that assures me even if he can’t say it, it’s true.
Benito De Santis still loves me.
Same as how I never stopped loving him.