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“What and the hell happened out there? Joe is in the med room, unconscious, and you’re covered in blood. Start talking!” Renz snaps. When Eli doesn’t immediately respond, a second voice fills the room. This one is softer and steadier. Calm. Deceptively calm.
“Elijah.” It’s a rasp. Husky, pained.Worried.
Isaac.
Excitement and fear consume me at the thought of seeing them again but it’s that small break in Isaac’s voice as he takes in Eli’s bloodied face that has me moving.
“I thought you were with—" Zac says, then abruptly stops as I step out from behind Eli.
Golden eyes pierce me like an arrow, freezing me and melting me all at once. My breath wooshes out of me as the weight of Renz’s stare grips me in a chokehold.
“Violet?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
5 Hours Earlier
“Well,lookwhatthecat dragged in,” Aldo, my long-time barber quips, his voice far too chipper for my current mood.
CELLS-THE SERVANT
“It shouldn’t be this fucking difficult to leave my house and get a damn haircut,” I snap, as I shoot a glare in the direction of the guards Zac insisted that I bring with me for this little outing. I scoff. As if I couldn’t protect myself. I’ve been fighting my own battles since I could walk and quite frankly, I find the protection detail insulting.
Aldo, completely unperturbed by my outburst, snickers, and gestures to the chair in front of him with a tip of his chin. I roll my eyes but drop my ass down without complaint, only to be sent forward as he lands a smack on the back of my head.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,scemo,” he barks, his voice gravelly from age and cigars. I swallow down the retort on the tip of my tongue at the chastisement. I dislike being talked down to and the insult is so much like my fathers that my need to punish and lash out rides me hard. But Aldo knows that he is one of the only people on this planet that can get away with such behavior and he uses that knowledge to his benefit.
Leaning back, I narrow my eyes at the elderly man’s reflection in the mirror before me. He smirks, unbothered and cocky as fuck. My fists clench on my lap before I force myself to relax. Huffing out a breath, I roll my shoulders and neck. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Bad day.”
He barks out a laugh that has his meager grayish-white comb-over swaying with the movement. “Bad life,” he corrects. I smirk at the accuracy of that.
Aldo’s cut my hair since I was a small boy. He’s seen the bruises, the marks left behind by my father under the guise oftraining me. He’s been on the receiving end of many a threat to keep his mouth shut about things that do not pertain to him. He also knows who and what I and my late family are.
All and all, Aldo is a very good person. He’s as close to a paternal figure as I’ve ever had which is a sad fact that I’d rather not dwell on. Leave it to mybastardoof a father to have me thinking such thoughts. I still remember walking to his old but well-kept shop as a child whenever my mother would demand it was time for a trim. Aldo would welcome me with open arms, food if I was hungry, advice if I needed it. He listened to me bitch and moan about the depressing state of my life, gave me tips for how to score with a girl when I began noticing them, and tended my wounds when no one else would.
Because of all that he’s selflessly done for me, he holds the right to punish and chastise me as he sees fit without repercussion. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“You’ve gone too long this time. If you’re going to wait three months in between visits, I might as well shave it all off, yes?” His heavy Italian accent reminds me of my grandmother and a pang of longing hits me hard. Brushing off the feeling, I smile at him but shake my head.
“Why? So I can look like your balding ass?” I chuckle, darting out of the way before he can land another smack for my comment. He grunts and brandishes his straight-edge razor like the weapon I know it to be, causing me to arch a brow at him. “Bring it, old man.”
Aldo heaves a sigh, swapping his blade for his comb and sheers. “So, tell me.” His simple demand causes my shoulders to immediately tense with dread. I know what he wants to talk about, but I simply do not have the bandwidth for it. He tuts at my silence and gives my ear a flick.
Settling back in the chair, I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax in the comfort of the familiar place with a trusted friend at my back. As Aldo begins to work on my hair, I open my mouth, and like an angry volcano waiting to erupt, I spill all of the sordid details of my life since taking over for my father.
Aldo listens attentively, saying nothing beyond grunts and grumbles of acknowledgment. I’m surprised by how candidly I tell him about the drama that has consumed me for the last few months, but I know it’s only due to the comfort he brings me. As odd as it is, this old man with no ties to the Cosa Nostra, knows the ins and out so of my world, and has always been able to offer me good advice as well as an outsider’s perspective. I have valued Aldo’s opinion since I was a child and have asked for it far more times than I probably should.
“I agree that none of the attacks you have described sound like Vasily,” he says thoughtfully, speaking of the Bratva’s leader. “He is a ruthlessbastardo. Non fallisce mai.” My eyes widen at that. Of course, I know that he’s right. If Vasily Belov sets his sights on you, he will not miss or fail in taking you down. However, I’m not sure how an elderly Italian barber from the Bronx knows such information.
In response to my confusion, he chuckles and shrugs noncommittally. “What? You thought that your father chose me at random?” He scoffs, dusting the fallen hair off of the drape on my shoulders. “Please,nipote, you underestimate me.” I swallow the mixed emotions I feel from the term of endearment, brushing it under the rug where it belongs. Instead, I choose to focus on what was just revealed.
“How did you meet him, Aldo?” I mutter as my thoughts begin to travel back to a time when my father was still around, and I was first introduced to Aldo. The man is well past eighty and my father was only sixty-three when he wasremovedfrom his throne of power. From what I’d been told, Aldo had been my father’s barber even before I’d been born. I never questioned it, as was the rule of thumb in the Travino household.
Aldo clucks, a low sound of dismissal. “That is a long story for another day, boy. Let us spend our time together wisely, no?” I open my mouth to protest, even more intrigued now than I had been just moments ago, but Aldo cuts me off with the slash of a hand. “Adesso basta!It is unimportant, Renz.”
Kicking a lever beneath the chair, he reclines it and tucks a towel beneath my neck in preparation for the final part of our appointment. Aldo offers the best straight razor shaves in New York, and I doubt there is anyone around these parts who would disagree. As much as it grates me to skip over what I have a feeling is a big and likely important story, I know better than to argue with a man holding a three-inch blade to my neck.
As Aldo coats my face in the thick, cool shaving cream, he continues, “I also doubt that the young McDermott boy has anything to do with your predicament.Orin non ha le palle.” I barely contain a burst of laughter at his declaration, but I settle for a low chuckle so as to not disrupt Aldo’s work.
