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Resting my head against the bookshelf, I close my eyes, breathing in the last lingering trace of her scent beneath the dust and the damp, our conversation playing over and over in my head.
Zaccaria never mentioned that revenge would come with these kinds of complications…
He never warned me about the colour green.
CHAPTER 6
FRANKIE
Aiden springs away from the wall as I exit the library. “What happened in there?”
“Nothing.” Zipping up my leather jacket, I yank at the collar and start walking down the street. He falls into step beside me, but I don’t turn and look at him. I’m too stuck on the face of an angel, a name like heaven, and a problem straight out of hell.
“Nothing?” Aiden stops dead. “It’s about her, isn’t it? Miss Cute Domestic Abuse?”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Did you kiss her up against a wall of Fifty Shades? If not, I dare you to go back in there and—”
“Shut your mouth!” I roar, heat blasting in my veins as I take a swing at him.
Caught off guard, my fist connects with his jaw, and he goes spinning into a nearby telephone box. “Jesus Christ, you hit like a girl,” he mumbles into the back of his hand. “Do you have a dick or a pussy?”
I’m contrite as hell when I see the blood spilling out of his nose. “Shit, Aiden. I’m sorry. Here, let me see.” I take a step towards him, but he matches it with a couple of fast ones in the opposite direction.
“I’m good thanks, Mike Tyson.”
There’s another beat of regret, and then he’s dropping his hand from his face and flashing me a bloody grin. “Chicks dig broken noses anyway, right?”
Groaning, I roll my eyes. “Do you always think with your dick?” Closing the distance between us, I grab his head and pitch him forward into my shoulder, and then clap him a couple of times on the back with affection. No harm done. Truth is, I love the mouthy little fucker. I never expected to, but there it is. He’s the last person I want to take my frustrations out on.
“Yeah, well, it turns out that only one of us actuallyhas a dick, so it needs to work double-time,” he says, his voice muffled by my jacket.
I grin and push him away. “You still got that fake ID I made you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I want a couple of strong drinks, and you’re buying.”
An hour later, I leave him standing at the bar, three pints down, and nose to cheek with some girl.
Stepping outside, I reach for my phone and message a number I know off by heart.
Been a while.Need to talk.
He replies right away.
8pm, kid. Usual place.
Pocketing my phone, I tip my head back to gaze at the smoky, starless London sky. I’m standing on the precipice of something again, just like I did when I was twelve years old—only this time it’s stronger, and it comes with a scent too delicate for this road to perdition.
Reluctantly, I replay the events of that night, each one unfolding with a dangerous clarity:
The moment my father died, and my life as I knew it died with him.
The moment I stepped into Zaccaria’s car and took his oath.
The moment I saw Ada.
