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“You fucked up, son,” Salvatore said, clasping his hands on the wooden desk. “I warned you and you went and caused trouble anyway. If something would’ve happened to Elena, you’d be floating in the Hudson. You should feel lucky.?
??
“Lucky,” Tony mocked. He ran a hand across his jaw before saying, “Left.”
Satisfaction filled my chest.
Right, it is.
“There are three sides to every story. Mine, yours and the truth.”
—Joe Massino
I PADDED DOWN THE CARPETED hall to the distant beat of the Misfits leaking from under my sister’s door. As soon as I entered my room, I left a trail of clothes to the bathroom. Bypassing the mirror, I turned the shower on hot and climbed in.
It burned.
Something had to wash this memory away. Today took me back to six months ago. It was the last day I’d had someone else’s blood splattered against my face.
The hot water spilled from the faucet, matting my hair to my face and shoulders. I imagined it was paint—the red running down my body and swirling into the drain. If only guilt was so easy to get rid of.
I closed my eyes.
Shouting. Cold barrel against my temple. One second, two seconds. Hesitation—
Bang.
My eyes flew open.
That gunshot hadn’t been in my mind.
The back of my neck prickled. Hopefully it was only Tony shooting another one of Nonna’s vases. But until now, I hadn’t thought of the consequences Tony might face after the trouble he caused . . .
I hopped out of the shower and dried off as fast as I could. Leaving my hair wet and uncombed, I threw on a t-shirt and shorts before running down the stairs. The marble floor was cold against my feet as I took the turn toward my papà’s office, and once again, I collided with something solid.
A lungful of air escaped me. I’d been going so fast I would have fallen to my butt on the floor, but an arm wrapped around my waist as I teetered backward and steadied me. It was an incredibly warm and heavy arm.
“Jesus,” Nicolas muttered with annoyance.
My stomach tightened as it pressed against his. The contact made me tingle everywhere, but I didn’t have time to analyze the feeling more. I was spun out of his way and left to watch Nicolas’s back as he continued down the hall.
His underboss’s cold indifference touched me as he passed, and I was suddenly and surprisingly glad I’d run into Nicolas instead.
A burning sensation remained around my waist, and my heartbeat fluttered from the impact and the worry creeping in. “Did you kill my brother?”
“Should have,” was all Nicolas said before the front door shut behind the two men.
I inhaled in relief, but it was short-lived when Tony left my papà’s office and swayed down the hall like he was drunk. He was bare-chested and his dress shirt was wrapped around his hand. Blood dripped bright red to the marble floors.
My brother was tall, slightly brawny, and covered in scars. From the two bullet wounds to an innumerable amount of others that I could only guess the cause. Probably from the illegal fights I knew he participated in.
Tony didn’t say a word as he passed, but I followed him into the kitchen. With the swinging door pressed against my back, I watched him grab a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and struggle to open it with one hand. He eventually managed by holding it against his chest and twisting. He took a long pull before sitting at the island. “Go away, Elena.”
“You need to see Vito.” He was the vicar at church, but also had medical experience to patch up wounds. It was the Lord’s work, after all.
“I’m fine.” He took another pull on the bottle, spilling some down his bare chest.
He wasn’t fine. He was smearing blood across the countertop. And he’d appeared drunk before he started drinking like someone had just broken his heart.
