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His concern cuts through me like a knife. No one has ever asked me before if I was hurt.
No—that’s not true. My mother did. I remember once, I fell over. She flew to me, concerned about my skinned knee. She ignored Ciro’s contemptuous sneer that she was babying me, gathered me up in her arms and kissed it all better.
“I—I think I might be,” I murmur. “My chest hurts.”
“Your chest?” Leo’s brows pull together at once, but I push aside his rummaging hands, struggling to find the words.
“Inside,” I insist. “In my—in my feelings?” I test out the word. Yes. It seems right.
For a brief moment, I allow myself to drown in the comfort of Leo’s presence. At least with him, I never need to pretend to be something I’m not.
“Okay. Julian, I have to ask…again,” Leo says carefully. “Did you kill Vinnie Esposito?”
The accusation hits me like a punch to the gut. I can’t help but flinch. Everyone thinks I killed him.
“Leo,no,” I say vehemently. “I didn’t kill him. Vincenzo and I were once lovers, that’s true. And yes, we had a little misunderstanding at The Cellar that night, but I had no reason to harm him, and—and Sandro had already instructed me not to kill any Espositos.” The mention of Sandro’s name makes my heart squeeze again and I almost double over.
Maybe Iamphysically injured. What else could explain this strange pain?
But Leo grabs me, making me look him in the eye. “Then why does everyone seem to think you did? Word is all over town that you’re the guy, and that Sandro’s looking to put you down to avoid a war with the Espos.”
“Someone took photographs of me standing over his body. I didfindVincenzo that night. But I didn’t kill him. Someone lured me into that alleyway and then took a few mementos. They sent them to the Espositos—and the Espositos sent them to Sandro, along with a declaration of war. And Sandro…” I take a deep, shuddery breath. “Sandro doesn’t believe me.”
“Shit,” Leo says softly, sitting back as he takes in my words. I see all the implications running through his mind. “Julian...” Leo trails off.
“Sandro was going to lock me up. I couldn’t let that happen again, so I ran, and now I…I don’t know what to do, Leo.” I grab him, shake him a little. “And why am I hurting so much inside? What the hell is wrong with me?” The raw edge to my voice shocks me.
“Julian,” Leo says softly. “I think you’re hurting because…well, you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid ofanything,” I snarl.
“Yes,” he says softly, catching my face in his hands. “Yes, you are. You’re afraid of losing your brother’s trust and respect. You worked hard to build up that relationship, and now you’re afraid it’s broken.”
I have to let that sit for a moment. It’s not pleasant to hear.
But it rings true.
I swallow down the strange lump that has appeared in my throat and change the subject. “But why is this all happeningnowabout Vincenzo? Why did they send the photos now if they’ve had them since the night he was killed?”
Leo’s fingers drop from my face, but he takes my hand in his. I want him to touch me. More. Everywhere. I want him to take away this ache inside me.
“Listen,Iknow you didn’t kill Vinnie,” he tells me. “I believe you. Okay?”
“You do?”
“You wouldn’t turn on your brother. If youhadkilled Vinnie, you would’ve just gone and told him right away. Correct?”
I’m not very good with hypotheticals, but that does sound like what I would have done,ifI’d killed Vincenzo. “Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
“Well, I know so,” Leo tells me. Something swells up within me, mingling with the pain, dulling it a little. “And hell,” Leo goes on, “if there’s a Family war on the line...” He blows out a long breath. “We need to do whatever we can to stop it. A lot of people are going to die if the Espos and the Castas clash. My father won’t sit there on the sidelines, that’s for sure.”
“But what can we do to stop it?”
“We find out who did it and clear your name,” Leo suggests, releasing my hand and leaning back against the worn sofa cushions. “Who would want Vinnie Esposito dead? Or maybe, who would want to set you up?”
My mind races through the tangled web of Mafia politics and relationships, searching for connections and motives. There’s one obvious solution. “La Contessa,” I say slowly. “She’s always hated me, wanted Sandro to get rid of me. And she was here in LA without his knowledge.” Sandro never said what the fallout from that had been. I’m not sure he even confronted his mother about her presence.
Or maybe he didn’t believe me aboutthat, either.
