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She’s talking about a home. Maybe she’s right. It hurts me even to think about it.
Mom doesn’t understand that there’s a dark pit inside of me, swallowing anything positive. She doesn’t understand that I only feel a flicker of positivity when I’m on a job and hurting people. It makes me a sick fuck, but I don’t care. I can’t care.
“I don’t care about my own happiness.”
“What a vicious,cruelthing to say.”
Suddenly, Mom bursts into pained tears. I’ve gone too far. I’ve let out too much real emotion. She hunches over, the sobs obviously hurting her stomach. I quickly move across the living room and kneel beside her. Mom shifts her shirt, a habit that started the day she got her colostomy bag. I know how much she hates it.
“I’m sorry, Ma.” I put my hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She feels so brittle, so thin. Mom’s the only person I have a heart for, and it’s breaking. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I mean it; that was wrong of me. I usually make more of an effort. Once, I even asked Colt to come and sit in a diner with us and pretend to be an old friend. I don’t want Mom knowing just how alone I am—alone and not caring, notwantingto be around people unless I’m hurting them.
Bad people, that is—demons who deserve it.
“Ma,” I say when she keeps crying.
“I… don’t… want… you…wasting… your… life!”
“Taking care of you isn’t a waste.”
“What about when I’m gone?” she hisses as I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “What will you have?Whowill you have?”
I almost groan. Maybe she’s going to start talking about me dating again. She’s dropped hints—more than hints—several times recently. She doesn’t want to pass away without seeing me with a woman.
“I’ve got friends, Ma.”
She frowns at me. “I hate when you lie.”
I wince. “Lie?”
“Yousayyou have friends, but I’m not a fool, Dante. Maybe I was, but why have I only ever met oneonce? That lovely man, Colt. That was his name, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Apart from him, nobody, ever. Please try. For me. Please.”
I clench my fists, not in anger toward my mother, but a general flaring of rage. I’m going to have to do this. I can’t tell her no, not when she’s so desperate, so sure.
“Does it really mean that much to you, me going to aparty?”
She sits back and folds her arms. For a moment, she looks like the old Sofia, the woman I remember from when I was a kid, a woman carved of iron. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it does.”
I suppress a groan.
“And,” she goes on, “I want a photo. Ask somebody at the party to take your picture. I don’t want you driving around aimlessly, then coming home andtellingme you went to a party.”
I could tell her no, but if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being good to my mother. All the other stuff—the darkness, the work, the killing—is just part of who I am. I feel nothing about it.Ortryto feel nothing, even if it sometimes makes me grin like a ghoul.
Mom matters. She deserves the truth.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll do it if it means that much to you.”
For the first time in a month, Mom’s smile seems genuine.
Sitting outside the Marino residence, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. What is this feeling, exactly? Nerves? I look across at the large suburban house, at least a six-bedroom place. Leonardo and Alessia Marino moved from their apartment this year, wanting a better place to host their grandkids, Colt told me.
There are dozens of cars lining the street, a few in the driveway, and people in fancy suits and dresses walking toward the house.
