Harper reaches for the pot the cactus is in, lifting it off the cabinet before glancing at me. She’s careful not to prick herself, but I’m unsure what she’s planning to do with the plant.
“Do you think Zeke is afraid of me?” she asks, her voice catching in her throat.
“No, he loves you. If anything, he clings to you more than he used to.” He’s been more needy since the killing, but that was never a surprise to me. Zeke is three. He witnessed a man being shot right in front of him. A man who intended to kidnap him and held a gun on his mother.
I’m not sure how much he comprehended of the situation but the blood, the man holding him when he arose from slumber, that has to stick with him.
Harper accidentally pricks the tip of her finger with the cactus and winces before putting the potted plant on Dante’s desk. “It needs sunlight to thrive.”
“And you, Harper. What do you need?” Dante asks, tilting his head, staring up at her, curious.
“I need you to guarantee that my son will be safe.”
Ten
Ashton
“I don’t want to do this,” Harper says, refusing to pick up the gun from the table.
Dante insisted I take her and Luca to the shooting range to help clear her head. The place is owned by the Ricci Mafia; it’s a private shooting club which caters to the family as well as private clientele on occasion.
Today, it’s just us, which makes it easier. I don’t have to worry about Harper having a panic attack and anyone questioning her mental health while brandishing a gun. Besides, there’s always the fear she might crack, break down, start bawling and talking about the shit that happened on Thursday night.
Am I worried?
Hell, yes. It hasn’t even been a week since the shooting.
Bringing her here, honestly, I think it’s a shit idea. Dante is just trying to get Harper and Luca out of his hair for the weekend. Why he thinks she is mafia material is beyond my understanding. I’m not a Don, though, so maybe he sees something I don’t.
All I see is fragility.
She’s weak.
Broken.
There’s no way she could pull the trigger if it weren’t one hundred percent in self-defense.
She doesn’t have the blood for murder.
Or the stomach.
“Pick up the gun.” I grit my teeth and nod toward the weapon that’s hers.
“Can’t we just go back to the house?” Harper glances from me to Luca, her eyes pleading with him to do something.
Luca’s jaw is tight and his eyes are narrowed on me. “She’s not ready.”
“She needs to get ready.” I check the gun that’s hers, making sure it’s loaded before handing it to her, safety on. “Take the fucking gun, Harper.”
“Yeah, that’s real smart, curse at someone and then demand they take the gun,” she mutters under her breath. She reaches out for the gun, and I notice the slight tremble in her hand.
She’s desperate to hide it, but I see right through the insecurities and fear.
The girl shot a man to protect her son, two days ago.
I’m sure she’s mentally going through hell. One glance at her, and I’d say she hasn’t slept since the shooting. There are dark circles under her eyes, and when she meets my stare, her eyes are glassy, distant.
“Don’t fuck this up and shoot yourself or one of us.”
