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“I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise,” she huffs. “But Rose isn’t a good person. We fell in love with her and put up with everything. She has good intentions but doesn’t know how to express them. We can love her for it, in spite of it, or not think about it at all. But it’s true. And she’s unlikely to change.”
I rub my thumb against my lips trying to hide my smile. She’s right. Rose is the most beautiful villain I’ve ever seen. One I love more than everything. Rachel loves Rose despite her not being a good person. And somehow, I love her for it. Different ways to love our girl, yet both strong.
“You’re right,” I finally say as she rearranges the burgundy mesh belt around her waist.
“I love eating,” she tells me. “But I look pregnant every time I eat two bites of something.”
Finally deciding to get rid of the belt, her dress loosens, and she stops sucking her stomach in, letting a small bump fill the dress. “See!” she laughs.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her. And I mean it.
She blushes a little but waves her hand in the air. “Enough about me. You said you left during freshman year. Where did you go to high school?”
My eyebrows shoot up, surprised at her question. “Oh,” I scratch my throat while I rummage into my childhood memories. “Just a random high school right outside D.C. It was called Northland High.”
“Did you like it?”
“I don’t really remember it,” I admit. “I didn’t have any friends or anything. People were scared of me, but I barely went. I was always with my dad.”
I run a hand through my hair and avoid her gaze when I understand she’s going to ask more. I point at her glass. “Refill?”
She shakes her head. “No. I want to ask more questions.”
I wet my lips and smile. “I can’t escape this, can I?”
“Nope.”
“Alright.” I sit back and wait for her to start again.
“Your dad,” she says. “What’s his name?”
“Frank. He’s dead now.”
Her face twists. “I’m sorry.” She puts a hand on my knee, and I instinctively pull back. It’s not her, it’s talking about my dad.
She pulls her hand back.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her. “He was not a good man. He was Bianco’s enforcer, and he loved his job.”
“Unlike you?”
“I’m not an enforcer,” I correct her. “I’m a hitman.”
Her brows shoot up, and I can read her mind before she finds the courage to speak it.
“It’s not the same thing. I do it because I don’t know what else to do. It’s all I’ve ever done. When Bianco killed my dad and I took his place, I counted the days until I didn’t have to work for him anymore. Being an enforcer for the Cosa Nostra doesn’t leave you with a choice. You kill who they tell you to. You hurt who they tell you to. You torture who they tell you to. Now…”
I huff, hesitating and wholly knowing there’s not a real difference, only that now I get to choose. “Now I take a contract because I need the money. I rarely do it, and I avoid it as much as possible.”
“Bianco killed him?” she chokes.
“Had him killed. He wouldn’t dirty his hands for such a small thing.” Saving her another question, I keep going. “My dad had a meeting with Emiliano Luciano.”
“Who?”
“He’s the Don of the Luciano family. Remember Vito? The man we met with Lucky when we were looking for Viktor? Emiliano is his dad. Bianco runs some eastern states from D.C. The Lucianos from New York City. They don’t like each other. That means a lot in the Cosa Nostra.”
She gulps as her eyes widen.
