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I hear the legs of the chair scrape the stone floor and watch as her expression changes. Her face reddens, eyes darkening to a deep indigo.
She stands, too afraid to disobey.
“Come here where I can see you,” my father demands.
She shifts her gaze to me, and I see the little girl again. But this Cristina is more vulnerable than that little girl was.
“Is she hard of hearing?” my father asks me.
“It must be your charming manner,” I tell him, finishing my whiskey and going to her. I don’t want Johnny’s hands anywhere on her. I will kill him before I allow that.
“Cristina,” I say. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, and she shifts her gaze to mine, not resisting my hold on her. The opposite. Almost melting into it.
The devil you know.
“Let me introduce you to my father, Benedict Di Santo.” I walk her around the table but not close enough that he could touch her, not that I think he would. “And this is Johnny, my father’s lapdog.”
Johnny gives me an enraged look, hands fisting at his sides.
I smile at the buffoon.
“You were there,” Cristina says.
I look at her, watch as anger battles that fear.
She remembers.
My father grows more curious, leaning forward a little.
“You were in my father’s study the night he was murdered.”
He grins, eyes narrowing as he looks her over from head to toe, returning his gaze to hers, studying her. I know that look he just got on his decrepit face. He’s about to rub salt into the wound.
“He begged in the end. Cried like a fucking baby when I gave the order to pull the rope and lift him into the air.”
Her hands fist, and I tighten my grip around the back of her neck. I feel her begin to shake.
“Easy,” I say low enough for only her to hear, but when my father studies us both for a beat too long, I wonder if it was quiet enough.
“It lasts longer that way,” he continues. “He strangled. For a good long time. But Johnny here, he caught him before the end.”
Cristina swallows.
“We put him on the chair then. After he calmed down, thinking I changed my mind, the idiot, that’s when I had the chair kicked out from under him. I swear to this day I can still hear his neck snap.”
She slips out of my gasp and lunges.
I grab her around the middle, lift her off her feet and drag her backward as my father grins, having gotten exactly what he wanted. He signals to Johnny to wheel him away.
“I’m going to kill you! I’m going to snap your goddamned neck!” Cristina screams as I press her to me, my arms solid around her chest and middle as she screams for me to let her go.
My father stops then. He turns to look at us and rolls himself just a little closer.
“Will you welcome her like you did your sister?” he asks me.
My jaw tightens, and Cristina goes silent, but I think that’s because I’m squeezing too hard.
“Johnny here would be happy to do it for you if you can’t, Son.”
“Your dog will not touch her.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Hoarse and full of rage.
Christ.
Fuck.
He grins.
And I realize my mistake.
I just exposed myself.
Johnny’s gaze slides over Cristina, and this time when I squeeze, it’s to hold on to something to keep myself from lunging at them both.
My father’s grin turns gleeful and then they’re gone. I hear the wheels in the distance followed by the sliding doors of the elevator.
When I loosen my grip, a choked sob escapes Cristina, and she goes limp in my arms. Lifting her, I carry her to the chaise and sit her down. I get the whiskey, pour two fingers into my glass, and hand it to her.
She shakes her head, rubbing her face. Did she process what he said? Did she follow that part about what I did to my sister, or was she too caught up in seeing him? At what he told her about her father’s final moments. I wasn’t there for those. I was tucking a scared little girl into her bed while he was dying downstairs. I’ve never regretted missing it.
Violence is a by-product of our business. I deal with bad men, and to stay on top, I do what I have to do with little emotion. And I can’t say I don’t enjoy that part of the business. That similarity between myself and my father is worrying.
But that particular cruelty, the way he killed Joseph Valentina? The way he played with him? It was ugly even for him.
“Drink it,” I tell her. She’s shaking, arms wrapped around herself like she’s freezing. I think she’s in shock. Maybe it’s all hitting her now. Maybe she’s just processing the gravity of her situation.
