Page 10

Arosso
This dumbass kid is going to be the end of me.
It’s my own fault, I guess, for entering into this brat’s life against every instinct inside me. Now she’s sprawled on her knees, dirtying the floor with her tears and the slush on her boots.
I lick my teeth and pace back into the kitchen.
The hell am I going to do with her?
Grabbing a towel, I have half a mind to dab it in chloroform and knock her out until I figure out my next move. Except six neighbors saw her chasing me down the street with that loud ass mouth of hers.
As I’m about to throw the towel at her, my heartpangslike I’ve been punched in the gut.
What…?
An image of my late wife and daughter crying manifests right where she’s sitting.
I’m dumbstruck.
The memory is haunting and vivid, resurfacing like an old movie reel.
Lisa… I’m sorry…
She broke down because we had to switch homesagainfor another job. Everyone always said I was too careful, and never enjoyed the fruits of family. Staying put, playing house while acting the devil during my night shifts. It’s what all the mobsters did. But not me. I was always paranoid. Rotting in jail was never in the cards. I’d rather be shot dead.
Still, fate had her way with me. How foolish to think I held any control.
I should’ve enjoyed them when I had the chance… my family.
Stanzo the Gloveand John Scar told me over and over again, but I didn’t listen.
Now they’re gone.
I blink hard to get the vision out of my head, then toss the towel at the young woman. “You’re making a mess.”
She looks up at me in disbelief, face all reddened. She’s not an ugly crier though. In fact, the tears falling over her silky skin paints a portrait of beauty.
“You must be a real goddamn sociopath, Silver. Do you care about anyone but yourself? Or are you as barren as this hollow house?”
I’ve heard similar words before in past one-night-stands… not quite as creative though. But this is different.She’sdifferent. It tugs at whatever’s left of my greying heart. I thought it was all ghastly mist at this point… and I thought I’d never really feel anything again after the death of my wife and daughter.
Not sure what’s coming over me, but I crouch down to be eye level with her. She smells like tears and honey. That sweet scent won’t leave.
Her sobbing stops as she stares me dead in the eye. That fiery anger resonates this close. A quiet moment speaks more than all of her loud words.
“You were never here,” I say evenly, with no room for question. “The idea was yours, and yours alone. Nod if you understand.”
Her body tenses. She knows I’m about to throw her a bone. Her arms straighten by the elbows, eyes lighting up like Christmas.
“Nod if you understand,” I repeat, and she does.
We both know she’s lying. Yet I’m compelled to advance this strange interaction inch by inch.
“It’s the Russians,” I say, savoring her expression. The thankfulness for new information, the anger as she places ethnicity to those who terrorized her, the fear for her father. She’s a pinwheel of emotion, and I just blew another gust her way.
“That mark?” her voice cracks.
“A sign. Part of their star. The reason you couldn’t identify it is because it isn’t finished. They leave random parts at every hit. So small and so faint, the cops would never—”