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“No, you didn’t, but I wanted to help you.” He swears under his breath, the sound garbled. “Christ, I still fucking do. Fuck me, right? I must be the dumbest, weakestcapoof all time.”
I watch his face for a few beats as his mind wars with his emotions, recognizing the agony. Trying to change the subject, I aim for humor. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re starting to catch feelings for me.”
His eyes harden, mouth forming a thin line. “Would that be such a bad thing? We are married, after all.”
“Barely.”
I regret the word before it even leaves my lips, but I can’t put a finger on why, exactly—why it bothers me that I’m clearly hurting this man, who’s done nothing but show me kindness since we met.
Why, deep down, part of me wants this marriage to be more. How I wish things were different.
Snapping his hand back like I’ve burned him—and not the other way around—he staggers to his feet, mouth puckering. It spreads after a moment into a sinister smile, all teeth, and no lips, and a strange sensation I’ve yet to feel around him until this moment grips my heart, making it beat hard against my chest.
“All right, Caroline. You want barely married; I’ll show you exactly that.”
As he turns away from me and stumbles to the stairs, he grips the rail like a man with sea legs. I crumple silently, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
I didn’t plan on making new enemies, and yet I feel like my husband just circled himself on my list in dark, blood-red ink.
FUCKING BITCH.
Blood splatters against my face as my fist rams into the junkie’s nose, his cartilage splitting at the impact. He’s already a purpled, ragged mess, but the anger coursing through me refuses to stop tonight.
Marco’s hand clutches my shoulder, stilling the next blow. “Boss, I don’t think beating the shit out of him is doing us any favors.”
“No?” I shake him off me, staring down at the piss-ant. A couple of my men happened to see him trying to break into the back of Crimson with a crowbar, so we dragged him to the cellar for a quick chat.
Usually, that’s all I would do. My father is the killer, known for his inability to show mercy, and I’ve always tried to prove myself a better man. If not for those I rule, then definitely for the memory of my mother, who never wanted this life for me.
Why she married a mob boss in the first place, is beyond me. I guess she thought she could take him out of it—that a family would change things.
And they did. She’s dead, and now I'm the boss.
Still, I try to keep my head during interrogations; I like to think rationally, address major concerns, and get as much information as possible before resorting to torture or beatings.
The Montaltos usually leave the former to Kal, who some King’s Trace residents refer to asDoctor Death, although that doesn’t stop them from seeing him when he sets up his pop-up clinics. Mainly because they’re free, and most of the residents of this Podunk town exist far below the poverty line.
But Kal is out of town, seeking greener pastures and trying to dabble in other ventures, searching the Carolinas for peace or some shit. Like he thinks he can run from the skeletons with his name etched on their bones.
None of us can.
Men like us don’t get peace. Kill enough people, and you stop being worthy.
I’ve stepped in temporarily as the interrogator, and while typically that would just mean a few dark threats that’d have the perp pissing their pants—my reputation isn’t far off from my father’s, even if it’s not exactly accurate—I’m on a fucking roll today.
This junkie hasn’t been conscious for minutes, and I’m still wailing on him, adrenaline pumping my fist like it has a mind of its own.
Because unfortunately, I’m still seething from my conversation with Caroline the other day, and I’m not myself.
I can feel it. Marco can tell, and so can Gia, who’s put a wide berth between us this afternoon, perhaps afraid that one of his snarky ass comments might be his last.
Whirling on Marco, I knock my shoulder into his chest, causing him to stumble. “You got a better way to send Kieran Ivers a goddamn message?”
“You could actually go up and talk to him.” Regaining his footing, he crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I don’t give a shit if you kill this guy, but if he’s really working for Ivers, you’re just exacerbating a war you don’t have any information on. That’s reckless, and it puts all of us in danger.”
“Fucking hell. When did you grow a damn pussy?” On a harsh exhale, I scrub a dirty hand through my hair, scratching at my scalp. My forearms are caked in blood up to my elbows, where I cuffed my shirt, the edges splattered with the red fluid. “I need a drink.”
Gia meets me by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets. I pick my jacket from one of the dilapidated wooden tables in this near-dungeon and push open the metal door, not stopping to see if my friend makes it through in time.
