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Chapter Eighteen – Delilah
Never in my life have I been so bored and so amped up at the same time.
The worst part is, the world keeps turning all around me. Nora keeps baking wonderful goodies in the kitchen, stacking brownies and cupcakes and muffins on the counter at all hours of the day. They disappear quickly, too, along with everything else she makes. At least I’ve had the distraction of helping her out wherever and however I can—there are a lot of extra bodies hanging around here now, and they all need to be fed. She’s only one person, after all. So I do what I can, cooking huge vats of pasta and sauce, washing and chopping fruits and vegetables, anything she needs.
But that still doesn’t fill my days, meaning I have way too much time to do nothing but think. Even when I’m cooking, I’m thinking. Wondering. Worrying.
Reading is impossible, since I can’t concentrate on anything long enough. Sometimes I have to read the same page three or four times to even understand what’s happening before I finally give up and toss the book aside. Nothing can hold my attention, because my attention is completely absorbed by my sister and Luca, the two of them fighting it out all the time in my brain while I stand back and watch helplessly.
At least I know she’s doing okay. When Nora asks me about her—because of course, news travels around here—I give her a thumbs up. “She sounds better every day. They’re moving her out of the ICU tomorrow if she continues to improve, and they don’t think she’ll have to stay there too much longer. Good thing, because I know it’s driving her nuts.”
“Where will she go after that? Back to her apartment?”
“I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway. The police probably made a mess in there, and I doubt anybody’s been in to clean up the blood.” The knife slips and I almost slice my finger instead of the carrot I was working on.
“Are you alright?” she asks when I hiss more in surprise and irritation with myself than with anything else.
“I’m fine. Just working too fast and not thinking clearly.” I set down the knife with a sigh. “It’s habit, I guess, but I was angry with myself for a second there because I feel like I should be the one going in to clean up. Isn’t that weird?”
“I don’t know if I would use the word weird.” She gives me one of her maternal smiles and it goes a long way toward soothing me. “But you shouldn’t feel responsible for that. You can’t take everything on those shoulders of yours, you know. Eventually, the weight there is too much. And you’re too sweet a person to punish yourself, anyway.”
She thinks I’m sweet. She has no idea the number of times I’ve played out one delicious, vengeance-filled scenario after another. Sometimes it’s my nameless attacker, sometimes it’s Greg. Once, it was the two of them together, both of them tied to chairs while I tortured them. If they passed out from the pain, I’d imagine throwing a bucket of water over their heads to wake them up so we could have more fun.
Not exactly sweet, in other words.
She rubs my back briefly in passing. “You should go outside, get some fresh air. I’ll take over from here.” Normally I would argue with her, but right now I’m more afraid I’ll end up cutting off a finger if I try any more of my so-called helping. It wouldn’t be helping if she had to clean my blood off the countertop.
So I take the side door out to the gardens. It was the right thing to do, since immediately the tension flows out of my muscles. My joints loosen, my breathing deepens. It must be all the beauty around me, not to mention the warm, bright sunshine. The air is clear and fresh, and I pull in as much of it as my lungs can hold while I tip my face upward, toward the sky.
The worst of the swelling has gone down almost entirely. All that’s left is a little bruising around my nose, but that will get better. I’ve lost count of how many guys around here have told me so. I guess a prerequisite for being a mafia guard is having your nose broken. Or maybe it’s something that comes as a result of the work. Either way, everybody assures me I’ll be healed up before much longer.
Now I take my time strolling down the paths, stopping to pull a weed here or there. It’s not like landscaping is anybody’s top priority right now, but I hate to think of everything becoming overgrown. I’ve almost reached the graveyard by the time I decide to head back to the house and grab a pair of gloves so I can do a little more serious work out here. For the family, at least, to keep their graves clean and tidy.
I would go back, too, if it wasn’t for a brief flash of movement near the center of the graveyard.
I hold my breath, ducking partway behind a tree and watching with my heart in my throat. There’s no way anybody could sneak onto the property, is there? Not with so many armed guards patrolling night and day. Still, I can’t help feeling apprehensive as I watch to see who or what is in there.
Then the person who bent down in front of one of the graves stands up straight again.
I have to cover my mouth with one hand. It’s Jock, standing with his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed.
Shit. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s the last person I want to bump into. I can’t forget how casually dismissive he was toward me when Luca wanted me gone. I’m still not exactly sure what changed his mind, but even that wouldn’t explain why Jock was so cold. It’s always been obvious he has a problem with me, but for God’s sake, it’s not my fault I’m here.
“I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs, the words carried on a warm breeze. “I see where this is heading, and it’s nowhere good. Just like last time. Only last time I had you to talk about it with. Hell, even Vincent wants him to stand down. Can you believe that?” He chuckles briefly, shaking his head.
Who is he talking to? Luca’s father? I can’t tell which grave he’s standing in front of from this angle. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I creep a little closer, crouched down in hopes of hiding behind the vine-covered fence.
“You know how he is when he’s like this. He doesn’t want to listen to anybody.” Strange, but he sounds human now. Like a normal, average guy. He wears a mask, too, the way Luca and Vincent both do. Maybe that’s another prerequisite for being part of this life. You can never show your true self.
I’m so busy thinking about that, I don’t notice a twig on the ground until I’m already stepping on it. It snaps as loud as a gunshot and I gasp, immediately looking to where Jock is now holding a gun and pointing it my way. I hold up my hands, grimacing. “Just me.”
“Motherfucker.” The gun disappears into his waistband once more while he scowls at me the entire time. “What are you doing out here? You were supposed to be in the kitchen.”
I didn’t know I had to clock in and out.I’m smart enough to let that comment pass unspoken. “I was coming out here to get some air. I almost cut my finger off in the kitchen, so I figured maybe I could pull some weeds out here, instead.” When he barely stops short of rolling his eyes, I let out an exasperated sigh. “What am I supposed to do? This isn’t fun for me, you know. My nerves are frayed, too.”
“No, you’re new to this.” He sighs, only a lot softer than I did. His gaze shifts to where Serafina’s headstone stands. “She used to get the same way whenever things got tense. She needed something to do. Something to distract herself with.”
Oh. Now now I get it.
