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When she finally stops ranting, recanting all the things she heard us say that morning, dread fills me. It fills me so quickly and thoroughly, that I almost double over and puke all over her pretty, reclaimed wood floors. But, if I’ve learned anything from my unconventional upbringing, it’s how to hide your emotions, giving nothing away.
A person’s emotions are their enemy’s biggest weapons. If they know what scares you, they can take you down quickly. But if they know what you love, then they hold the key to your entire demise.
Violet stops pacing and narrows her eyes at me, expectantly. Keeping my face devoid of anything and my voice flat, I say, “I can’t tell you.” Then, as an afterthought, I say, “I’m sorry,” hoping it will soften the blow.
She continues to glare for countless minutes before shocking the shit out of me and smiling. It’s not a cute smile either. It’s one laced with frustration and lined with hurt. Like she’s given up before we’ve even begun.
When she finally speaks, her words baffle me and amuse me, in equal measure.
“What is this, Eli? Fight Club? Hogwarts? Because I’m telling you, I’m beginning to feel a little bit like a muggle right now.” She huffs out a slightly manic laugh as she continues to pace, her hands now on her hips in irritation.
“A what?” I ask, with a confused chuckle.
She once again pauses her incessant movements and her head shoots in my direction as she gapes at me. “Which part of that did you not understand?”
I roll my eyes and groan. Why is she being so dramatic? “Obviously, everyone knows what Fight Club is. ‘Rule number one: Don’t talk about Fight Club,’”I quote the line from one of my favorite movies. “Everyone loves Ed.”
Still staring at me, she cries, “How can any self-respecting human go this long in their lives without knowledge of the wonderful world of wizardy?” she demands, her hands flailing about. My head tilts to the side as my brows furrow in question. “Hogwarts, butter beer, Dumbledore, Hagrid,Harry Fucking Potter!” She ticks off a bunch of random words that I don’t understand, becoming more incensed with each syllable.
The more she says, the more confused I am. “Is this a movie?” I gently guess, trying not to piss her off even more. She looks like a feral kitten right now and I swear, her body hair is standing on end like she’s ready to pounce.
“What?” she shrieks, the sound so harsh I actually wince. Her mouth flops open in utter disbelief. Shaking her head, she begins to pace again. “Is it a movie, he says. Doesn’t even know what a freaking muggle is. A muggle!” She continues to ramble nonsensically, ignoring me every time I call out to her.
I want to laugh, I really do. She’s just so fucking adorable.
When she makes no move to end her tirade, which now includes stomping from one side of her small living room to the other, I sigh a long sound of exasperation. Standing, I quickly close the distance between us, and place my hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “Calm down, killer, no need to shout.”
She bats my hands away. “Are you seriously telling me that you don’t know who the great and honorable J.K. Rowling is?”
My mouth opens and closes as I search for any recognition of the name. I try to ignore the irrational stab of jealousy that fills me over the fact that she’s clearly obsessed with some dude that I don’t even know. However, the more she glares at me, the more I realize that I need to find a way to squash this, quickly. So, I lie.
Smiling, I nod and snap my fingers like it just came to me or some shit. “Oh, right! That guy. Yeah, he’s good people. Great work, too.”
“J.K. Rowling is a woman, you fool! She writes books! Amazing, wonderful books! She created an entire world of magic, spells, love, and friendship! It’s so good!”
Ah, fuck. That’s even worse.
I groan and rub my now throbbing temples. I need a nap. “I hate to break it to you, Little Flower, but if you wanna discuss books, you’ve got the wrong guy. You’d have to go to Renz. I’m sure he knows all about your little book.”
That guy reads almost obsessively. It’s the reason our library in The Tower is one of the only rooms that’s actually been personalized. He couldn’t go without his books, even if our living arrangements are temporary.Hopefully.
A wistful, curious look fills her face and I watch as she tries to conceal it, to no avail. “How is he?” she finally murmurs. “How is—” she swallows, cutting herself off, though we both know who she was going to ask about.
My heart gives a small squeeze. That’s the first time she’s mentioned either of them or the emotion that crosses her beautiful face as she brings them up fills me with elation. I tamp it down, giving nothing away as I grab her hand and lead her to the couch.
We drop down on opposite ends, but I angle my body toward her, bracing one arm on the back of the couch. She brings her bare feet up, tucking them beneath her body. The move places extra distance between up and I don’t miss the way she closes in on herself slightly. It’s so unlike her usualno fucks givenattitude, but I don’t call attention to it.
Watching her for a reaction, I answer her previous question. “He’s good. Tired and busy but good. They both are.” Violet’s eyes narrow at my non-answer. Once again, indecision wars within me.
It would be so easy.So easy, to just say the words. To tell her everything. To hope and pray that it’s not too much and it doesn’t scare her away. To tell her our deepest secrets and ask her to stay anyways.
It’s not even the fact that we are in the Italian Mafia and that Renz is the new Don of the entire operation. That’s a well-known fact that most, if not all, people who hold any type of power or influence, are aware of. There are no laws or rules stating that she, or anyone else, wouldn’t be allowed to know who we are.
The reason I don’t want her to know is because of everything else that comes with it. We are killers, murderers, drug and gun traffickers. We are involved in the black market. We have connections to other cartels and mafias worldwide. We know evil people, associate with them. Fuck. Wearethem.
More than that though is the world that lies beneath our jobs.
Our blood. Our families. Our upbringings.
