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“Because you are mine,” I say, realizing this answer applies to both questions. “No man gets to hurt or insult you. Except for me.”
Her top lip pulls back in a snarl. “I am not yours. You do not own me. I rejected your proposal.”
I went to her father about that, knowing it would do little to change her mind, but I had to try. I can’t stop thinking about it. The possibility of a union between us. Of peace between the Volkovs and Furinos. Of Eve’s supple curves pinned beneath my body, writhing against my skin.
“Which is why I’m offering you another chance to make the right decision,” I say. “Marry me, and you’ll be safe. You won’t be attacked in parking lots and insulted by men. You’ll be respected. You’ll be the daughter of a don and the wife of a don, and you’ll be the most powerful woman in this city.”
Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, Eve spits at me. It lands on the dead hitman. “I will never marry a killer. I’d rather be alone. I’d rather be hunted and harassed and belittled for the rest of my life than gain power by tying myself to a man like you.”
Rage sparks in my bones. The desire to lash out curls my fist, and suddenly, I’m jumping over the body of the hitman between us. My feet hit the pavement with a one-two punch, and then I’m growling in front of Eve, nostrils flares, fists at my side.
“You are a stupid woman. Too proud, too stubborn, and it will kill you one of these days. Someday, you’ll offend the wrong man, and he’ll kill you for it.”
Eve’s soft sob clears the red from my vision.
I look down, and she is cowering in front of me. Her eyes are wide and on mine, but her mouth is hanging open, her lower lip trembling, and her shoulders are hunched forward to try and protect herself from the blow she is sure is coming.
She looks terrified.
I stumble back, my shoe slipping in the hitman’s blood. I sidestep the congealing puddle and scrape the blood off my sole on the asphalt. Then, I turn and leave. I feel Eve watching me, but I don’t turn around or say anything. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I’m feeling.
When I get back in my car, I drive away without looking to the parking lot to see where Eve is or whether she is still watching me. Instead, I keep my eyes on the road and focus on the anger. Not the confusion or the pity or the regret. Those emotions aren’t useful. They are meaningless. But the anger? That, I can use. My family has no shortage of people who need to be punished, and tonight, a lucky few will get a visit from me.
7
Eve
Cal Higgs has more friends than I thought. Or, rather,hadmore friends. In the week since his murder, people have come out of the woodwork to eat at his restaurant every night, crying over the tragic loss of life. Mourners fill the small chapel set up for his funeral easily and are pushed into overflow seating in the balcony. I feel like I should be the one in overflow. Surely there are people up there closer to Cal than I was. Plus, I’m part of the reason he is dead in the first place, which should probably exclude me from attending his funeral at all. But no one else knows that, and I don’t intend to make it public knowledge. So, I fold my hands in my lap and try to blend in.
“Do you think Luka will show up here?”
“Chiara,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Not the time and certainly not the place.”
She rolls her heavily-lined eyes. “It was just a question. No one is looking at us, anyway.”
I didn’t want Chiara or anyone else to come with me. I wanted to go by myself, quietly pay my respects to my former boss (and apologize for getting him murdered), and leave. But my father wouldn’t hear of me going alone.
“If one member is in pain, we are all in pain,” he says. “Take Chiara and Samuel with you. And hell, I’ll come, too. I liked Cal Higgs.”
My father did not like Cal Higgs, and the feeling was mutual. Cal hated that my dad forced him to hire me, and my dad hated that Cal let members of the Volkov family eat in his restaurant. Yet, he is sitting at Cal’s funeral with his consigliere and my childhood best friend in tow. Subtle.
“I mean, if he did show up, that would be pretty hot,” Chiara says in a way-too-loud whisper. “You’ve always liked a bad boy.”
“No, I haven’t. You must have me confused with you.”
She shrugs and then adjusts the sleeve of her black leopard print sweater. “Maybe. Because I’d certainly accept his proposal. Have you seen Luka Volkov? He has sex eyes and a panty-dropper smile.”
I don’t want to encourage Chiara, but my attention snaps to her. “You’ve seen him smile?”
She shakes her head and then sighs, a drugged kind of smile on her face. “No, but I can imagine. I mean, with those plump lips, how could his smilenotmake your panties drop?”
I feel eyes on us, but when I look around, no one seems to be looking at us. “Can we not talk so much about panties dropping? We’re at a funeral.”
Chiara pinches my arm and laughs. “When did you become such a prude?”
“Hmmm…I’m not sure…let me think,” I say, voice thick with sarcasm. “Maybe when I became the prime target of the Volkov boss and am being pressured into signing my soul and last name away to his son in order to end the feud? Perhaps that is when I stopped being so carefree.”
I don’t know if Chiara thinks I’m joking or if she is really just that dumb, but she smiles and wraps her arm around mine. “Just marry him. He’s hot and it would make your dad happy. Not to mention, you’d be a don’s wife. Do you realize how crazy that is? I’d kill for that kind of position. I’m going to end up married to some poor foot soldier.”
