He grunted. “You had it hard then. You’re no mafia princess. But I still don’t see why you’d hate me so much.”
“I don’t hate you.”
He laughed and put his wine glass down. “You hate me, Cora. It’s all over you every time I come around. Even when you want me, even when you want to fuck me, you still hate me.”
“That’s not true. It’s not just—”
“Go ahead and say it’s not just me again.”
I clamped down my jaw and clenched my hands. I put my wine glass down, afraid I might squeeze it hard enough to shatter the glass and cut my hand to shreds.
“You really want to know?” I asked, feeling myself lose control of my anger. “You really want to know why I hate you?”
“Tell me.” He leaned toward me, hands spread, staring at me with this look in his eye like all he wanted to do was strip me down and fuck me on the counter.
“My best friend, Alex.”
“You mentioned him.”
“I told you he wanted to be a made man. Wanted to be hard, but he… he wasn’t.” I looked away as the memories came swirling up through me. I thought I might be sick, and I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, or the food, or reliving the memory of Alex, of talking about the most horrible moment in my life to this man—to this made man, to the kind of man that got my friend killed.
“What happened to him?” He asked so gently, and it pushed me over the edge.
“We were standing outside of a deli one afternoon, one of my dad’s places. Lots of his guys went there, you know, did business out front. Alex had this stupid idea that he’d ask them to buy a little bit of weed then resell it and prove that he was worth something, and he’d been bugging me about it all afternoon—so I told him to just shut up and go ask them about it.”
I took a deep breath and looked back at him, meeting his gaze. I smelled the rain on the asphalt, the smoke in the air from their cigarettes. I couldn’t remember their faces anymore; they were around afterward, and I think one even tried to talk to me, but I still couldn’t see their faces. They were my dad’s guys, and I think they were afraid of me. But their expressions were gone, erased from my memory, and I didn’t know why.
The next bit was a struggle.
“Alex was annoyed, because I snapped at him, told him to just go do it and stop being such a baby about it. He called me an asshole, but he turned toward the guys and walked over. I watched the whole thing happen. Alex was a few feet away when the car pulled up.”
I saw his eyes change, light up with recognition. He knew what was coming next. He’d probably seen it before—or done it before. The car tires screaming as the car slammed to a stop, the smell of gunpowder in the air, the tang of blood as it busted up in pink mist clouds and settled over everything, the screams of people nearby, the deafening gunshots—I still dreamed about it all.
“I think they were aiming for my dad’s guys,” I said, voice shaking, but I pushed forward. “They started shooting, and kept shooting. The windows broke open and flew everywhere, and I remember screaming and throwing myself down on the sidewalk. They kept shooting for what felt like hours, but when they stopped, my ears were ringing. I didn’t even notice them drive away.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “Alex was on the ground, bleeding. He was gasping for breath. Pink bubbles formed at his lips. I wanted to do something, you know? I thought about giving him mouth to mouth, but that’s not what you do when someone gets shot. I tried putting pressure on the wound, but there were so many. The other guys, they got shot, but they weren’t dead, they were crawling away and moaning in pain. I heard people in the deli screaming. And I knelt there next to Alex, trying to stop the bleeding, and I don’t know what I said—I think I said he’d be okay, over and over again. He gasped for breath and grabbed my wrist, he held it, stared at me with these open, crazy eyes, and then nothing. He stopped breathing, he fell still. There was blood everywhere, it soaked into my jeans and my socks, I had to shower three times before I got it all out of my hair. And he was dead.”
I stopped talking. The kitchen felt enormous all of a sudden and I wanted to throw up. My hands shook and the only thing keeping me on my feet was the kitchen counter behind me.
“Did they ever find out who did it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “My dad was pretty pissed about it. He paid off Alex’s family, was real apologetic for about a week, but then everything went back to normal. Everyone moved on, because nobody gave a shit about Alex except for me, but nothing went back to normal for me.”
I felt like I’d never left that day, that afternoon when I watched my best friend die in front of me. It wasn’t just the sudden violence or the crippling loss—it was more how helpless I felt, how impossible it was for me to do anything to help him, and how every day afterward, every day he was gone and I was still alive was more proof that I couldn’t do a thing. My father, the mafia, they only made that truth more and more apparent until the day my cousin offered me a way out—money in exchange for marriage.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been hard. How old were you?”
“Nineteen. We were kids.”
He nodded slowly. “That sort of shit isn’t supposed to happen.”
“But it did,” I snapped, feeling my rage flare, and it felt good, better than being upset. “It did happen.”
“I know. And I’m glad you told me.”
I took a few deep, calming breaths, trying to get my thoughts in order. “You wanted to know why I hate made men, and that’s your answer. I hate you all because of the world you create around you. Selfish, violent, and stupid.”
“Now I understand why you didn’t want me to do that hit back there. Too many innocent people.” He sighed and rubbed his face then stood. “And you were right.”
“I know I was right.”
He stared at me for a second, and I thought I saw pity, or maybe sorrow in his eyes—it didn’t matter either way. My hands were shaking, though I managed to raise the wine glass to my lips.
“And you’re right about this world. We’re a bunch of fucked-up egomaniacs with guns and too much time.”
I put the glass down. “So what do you want to do about it?”
He approached me slowly and when I didn’t flinch away, he put his hands on my hips and looked down at me. I felt a thrill—both self-loathing and desire.
“It’s not what I’ll do, but what you’ll do.”
“I can’t do a damn thing.”
“Married to me, you can. You want this city to be safer for everyone? Then you need to stick it out.”
“You’re going to murder that man.”
He moved closer, lips so soft and gorgeous. “I have to and you know it. He’s not going to stop until he kills me or hurts you in the process.”
“Reid—”
“No,” he said, voice hard, “listen to me. What happened to your friend was wrong, but this is different. Jarvis is a rabid dog that got a taste of blood and now all he knows is fighting. I need to put him down, and I need you to be okay with that—or at least be willing to step aside and let me do what I have to do.”