“Cas, Carmine took his own life instead of giving up his co-conspirator. Rocco offered him a peaceful way out.”
I stand up. “Can I take a shower?” The words come out harsher than I intended, but finally, Mia seems to drop it.
“I’ll make us some dinner. Lasagne good for you?”
I nod, trying to focus on anything other than the ringing in my ears. As soon as the bathroom door closes behind me, I strip down and all but run into the shower, allowing the scorching water to burn on my skin as I regain control of my breathing.
It’s complicated. All so fucking complicated. Because my father is dead. Andhemight not have pulled the trigger, but that didn’t stophimfrom being the reason my father is now dead.
I let the numbness take over my body once more, relishing the escape from the turmoil of my emotions. I’m soothed by the scorching water that washes away the sins of the night before.
My mind only snags on one tiny thing.
I killed a man. And I still can’t bring myself to care.
I shudder when I turn off the shower and step back into the real world. Wrapping a towel around myself, I head back into the apartment to see if Mia has any spare clothes I can borrow.
“Hey, Mia?” I say as I open the door.
The smell of freshly baked lasagne hits me like a ton of bricks.
“Cas?”
Nausea rises within me so fast that I stagger back into the bathroom, searching desperately for the toilet bowl.
I make it just in time.
Mia is there a second later, pulling back my hair with dutiful care as I heave whatever was left in my stomach into the toilet bowl.
“Fuck,” I gasp as I finally rest my head against the porcelain. “I must have a virus or something.”
I’m too exhausted to notice how still Mia has become. “Why?”
“I threw up in that trunk earlier, too.”
I lean back on my heels and go to wash myself off, but Mia’s arm holds me steady.
“What?”
She bites her lip. “It was the lasagne, wasn’t it?”
“What? No.” I try to brush her off. She’s been so kind to me today. I don’t want to insult her food on top of everything else.
“Cassandra. When was your last period?”
27
ROCCO
Ican see the blood leaking through the wrap on my hand. But I don’t care. The light leather of the punching bag is already stained.
Each blow only adds to a tapestry of a million other smears.
Heavy metal music thrums through the room as I hold the bag steady, preparing for my next set of at least ten more.
I’m exercising until my body is too exhausted even to think.
I’m about to throw another punch, when someone touches my shoulder.
