I learn two things about what-the-fuck moments as I step from the car, too numb for any rational thoughts to even think about crossing my mind.
The first is that, just like when I found Wyatt OD’ing in our apartment, I sort of drift out of my body.
The second is that people panic big-time when they see bodies, running around like headless chickens, giving us the time to walk over to the corpse. The other crazy thing: headless chickens makes me think of chicken-head, which makes me think of Angelo and our silly jokes.
I realize now that I love him. Apparently, things get clear at the end. Because I’m pretty sure I might die today, and it’s awfully hard to lie to myself when I know that.
I love Angelo De Maggio.
If I somehow make it out of this alive, I’m going to tell him that.
Artan and I lift the corpse from the car and carry it inside. Anytime I look around as though for an escape, he nods, indicating the gun in his waistband. I have no choice but to help him carry it into the lobby. But then, when he’s fiddling with the executive elevator—the security nowhere to be seen; I’m guessing they paid them off—I make a break for it.
I turn and sprint as fast as I can for the door, breath loud in my ears, running with animal panic. I’m almost at the door when a sharp pain flares in my leg. When we were kids, Mom and Dad took us to Malta for a holiday. I went too far out in the sea one day, and a jellyfish stung me. That’s what this feels like, only multiplied by a thousand.
I stumble, cursing, and then try to stand up. My ankle rolls and I let out a savage cry.
“Did that seem like a good idea?” Artan snarls, grabbing me by the hair. “I try to be nice to you, and this is what I get? Come on, bitch.”
I stumble along beside him as he drags me to the elevator, where the corpse is already propped up against the wall. With a sickening thud in my belly, I realize I recognize him. It’s Levi Mancini, the man I met at the soup kitchen, the man whose mother—Madolina—made such a fuss over me.
Angelo’s best friend.
“This is so fucked,” I say numbly. I shrug Artan’s hand off me and slump against the mirror. My calf roars with pain. In my reflection, I look worn out and ill, my face pale with blood loss and the adrenaline dump of trying and failing to run.
“I can’t disagree,” Artan says. “And I am sorry I called you bitch.”
I shake my head in disbelief. None of this feels real. “I’m more concerned about the gunshot, Artie.”
The elevator music sounds so stupid right now, all upbeat as the stench of the corpse fills the air. I’m amazingly calm, considering I just got shot. Is this shock?
“The gunshot was necessary.” Ding, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open. “But my offensive language was not.”
I guess this is his version of morality? How insane is that? He drags the corpse out, not even looking at me now that we’re in the penthouse. I limp forward into the living room, trailing blood.
When I round the corner to the bar, Angelo leaps to his feet, but a fat, neckless man with a greasy comb-over prods him with a pistol, and he sits back down. Beside him, a thin man with horn-rimmed glasses sits. Men with guns stand all around.
“You fucking shot her,” Angelo snarls, gripping the bar so hard his whole body shakes. “Why is she even here, you sick bastard? This is between me and you.”
The neckless man grins at me, ignoring Angelo. “Hello, dear,” he says. “My name is Dujar. Please, take a seat.”
I don’t really have a choice. And, to be honest, I’m not exactly at ease with all these men with guns. There’s six of them, I count, nine if you include Dujar, Artie, and the man with the glasses, who most likely have weapons.
All of which leads to me to one fairly obvious conclusion: we’re fucked.
I drop down on the barstool, whimpering with pain. Angelo touches my hand softly, but his eyes never leave Dujar. “Let me check her wound,” he requests.
“It won’t be necessary,” Dujar says casually. Then he nods at the man with horn-rimmed glasses. “Oh, where are my manners? I am Dujar. You know Angelo already, of course. Your escort today, Artan, you have already met. And this is Giraldo. He is another rat, like our deceased friend Levi here.”
Giraldo starts to yell something as Dujar aims the gun at him, but the yell is cut off by the sound of the gunshot.
Just like that, he’s dead.
Angelo’s hands immediately snap up, covering my ears and softly turning my head away. I clamp my hands over his, pressing them closer to my ears, but I don’t let him turn my gaze all the way away.
“I hate rats,” Dujar sighs, curling his lip at Giraldo’s corpse. He barks something in Albanian. Artan and three other men start carrying both corpses into the next room. Then Dujar pours three drinks and slides two across to me and Angelo. He raises his own, as though he’s giving a toast. “Drink!”
After seeing him take a sip, I drink, mostly just to calm my quivering nerves. My leg wound is pulsing blood, but slower now, so I know it hasn’t hit an artery. That’s just dumb luck right there. Otherwise, I might be dead already. I feel lightheaded, though, and have to grip onto Angelo’s thigh to steady myself.
We meet eyes in the middle of the mayhem. He looks sad and mournful, and yet still defiant. It’s the familiar rage I’ve seen in him since we first met, but it’s somehow more focused now, more mature. He looks like an older man. Like his father, almost. Their blue-green eyes have the same kind of tempered fury.
Dujar looks between us, grinning, clearly enjoying this. I’m guessing he’s been trying to outmaneuver Angelo for a long time, and now that he’s got his chance, he’s going to draw every drop of sadistic pleasure from it.
“What was that?” he laughs.
“What?” Angelo growls, shifting. I can tell he wants to do a million violent things to Dujar.
“That look you just exchanged. It touched my heart.” He barks in Albanian, and all around us, men laugh. “I did not take you for a romantic, Angelo. I thought this whore was just your fake wife?”
“Whore,” I laugh harshly, shaking my head. “Ten points for sexism.”
Dujar just chuckles. “Some fight in her, eh? My men will like that. I could have them take her, you know, one by one, as you watch. What do you think about that, Angelo? You’re not so high and mighty now, are you? Talking down to me like I’m beneath you, like I wasn’t in this life long before you were even a drop at the end of your stupid father’s limp cock.”
Angelo growls, “Is this about money? Territory? Or something else? Let’s talk business, if you want to talk business. But this shit—this fucking talking just for the sake of it—it’s starting to bore me.”
“You don’t like it when I insult her, do you? What about this?” Dujar casually points his gun at me.
I flinch, and Angelo sucks in a breath. “Don’t fucking point that at her,” Angelo says. “I swear to God, Dujar! Ti ammazzo, cazzo!” I’ll fucking kill you.
Dujar just keeps the gun pointed at me. He’s loving this. Finally, he lowers it, rocking back on his heels and looking from me to Angelo and back again. “You really love this woman,” he says. “Angelo De Maggio, a man in love. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes. Tell her you love her, Angelo.”