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“The Viper is dead. Maricela is free of him now,” she says, her voice a little quieter, a little less steady.
“Argh!” I yank my hair in my fists until it stings, then storm over to my bureau and fetch a sheaf of photographs, throwing them down in front of her. “I know you haven’t seen these, and you honestly don’t want to, so you probably shouldn’t look at them… but this is what he did. This is what Vito Rossi put Maricela through before she got away. This is what happened when I gave her back.”
Despite my warning, Róisín picks up the glossy 8 x 10 images and looks through them. I swallow as I acknowledge her whimper, and when I check on her there are tears rolling down her cheeks. “Ah feck, deirfiúr,” I automatically slip into using the Irish word for sister as an endearment, like I used to do when Róisín was young. “I told you not to look.”
She shakes her head and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “This is not your fault, Ciaran. You didn’t do this to her,” she tells me with a sniffle. “Maricela was safe whilst she was here.”
I press my lips together before I reply. “Was she though? Callum was rough on her and I…”
“She was!” Róisín insists. “Nothing like this happened at either of your hands.” She waves the sheaf of photos in the air to punctuate her point.
“And yet I sent her back there, knowing the things the Viper was capable of. The moment I passed her over, I signed her death warrant. There’s no denying that.”
“But she’s not dead.” Róisín perseveres, like I don’t already know all of this. “And it’s not like you gave her back just for the hell of it. You did it for me. I know Maricela would have understood that you had no choice.”
I settle my hands on the arms of the chair she’s sitting on and look my little sister in the eye. “By the skin of her teeth, Róisín. By pure luck. If this so-called mystery gunman hadn’t shot the Viper when they did, it would have been all over for Maricela. That’s how close it was!”
I huff out a breath and straighten up. “And now you’ve seen what he did to her, do you really think Maricela will want anything to do with the man who put her there?”
“I think you’re fixating on entirely the wrong things,” Róisín stubbornly responds, shuffling the photographs back into a pile and turning them face-down on the table. “And I think that’s born of misplaced guilt about what happened. Look at it from a different perspective. If you hadn’t taken her, she’d be married to that monster by now, and shackled to a life she never wanted.”
I spin around, snap my fingers, and point at Róisín. “There! You said it yourself… a life she never wanted. Do you think our world is any different, Róisín? We’re all in the same business. There’s not so much distinction in our organizations. We all trade in crime backed by fear to make a living. We’re no different from LA Cosa Nostra.”
My sister stands and jams her fists on her hips. “But we are different from the Viper,” she maintains. “And you know damn well we are. You’re using that as some kind of excuse so you can beat yourself up over something that’s not your fault and self-flagellate into making yourself feel better.”
Her words hit too close to the truth.
“Seriously, Ciaran. Be honest with yourself if no one else.”
Róisín might believe she’s right, but the truth is I can’t unsee the graphic images that were sent to me after I asked the friend of a friend of an associate to find out if Maricela was okay.
And now all I can visualize is my beautiful girl beaten to a pulp, black and blue with broken bones, because I hand-delivered her to a man who viewed her pain as sport.
It doesn’t matter that I did so to save my sister.
It doesn’t matter that sweet Maricela understood the reason why.
It only matters that she was hurt because of my choices.
And I did have a choice. Even if it was the choice between a rock and a feckin' hard place.
Chapter Forty
MARICELA
There’s something about the three-week mark that has carved a presence into my life.
Three weeks that I spent with Ciaran.
Three weeks after being returned to the Viper, I walked away a free woman.
And now, three weeks later, again, I’m moving into my new digs.
Or maybe it’s just the number. Lucky number three.
It’s not quite an apartment, but it’s pristinely clean and unexpectedly affordable - a minor miracle in this part of the world. I think Ms. Brown, whose converted basement I’m renting in New Jersey, is just happy to find someone who didn’t look like a ‘punk or a druggie’ - in her words.
My black eye has mostly faded, and I covered the residual bruising with makeup, so I guess a young woman with a broken arm looks like a safe bet. Although, she may not feel the same if she had any idea about my mafia ties.
