Page 47 of Bad Bishop

I’d make her watch, too.

“Move it, Barbie.” I stepped sideways to clear the path for her. “Hurry up, and you just might make it to see the famous Hunts Point sunset.”

_______

We walked in silence side by side on the littered street. Logic dictated I lived where I ruled, so Hunts Point it was.

Fintan lived with Da in the suburbs. They didn’t care for rough neighborhoods. Tierney and I, however, showed our strength by making it our stronghold.

It made little difference that my da wasn’t around. Tyrone never truly was. Technically, he was alive. But for all intents and purposes, he was good as dead. Murdered the night they killed Mam. He was a ghost. Living. Breathing. Attending meetings. Pretending to be alive. I’d been managing the family business since I was a wee lad. Tierney and Fintan helped.

Lila was bundled in a pink faux fur coat covering a pink flowery dress. A silent fuck you to my order that she wear something less childish. Other than hurling a whole-ass flamingo on herself, she did everything to let me know she intended to do the exact opposite of anything I asked.

She drew hungry, curious gazes that were promptly snuffed out by my lethal, intimidating glares.

I sowed terror everywhere I went, but especially in the South Bronx, where my word was gospel.

The orange sun dipped under the decrepit buildings, swallowed by urban decay. Lila took everything in with wide, alert eyes.

We entered Maggiano’s, where I picked up a basket and jerked my chin to signal her to start loading it. The food in my apartment left a lot to be desired. I preferred nourishing, dense in protein nutriments. Shchi soups, caviar, cold meats, pickled eggs, fermented dairy, and black breads.

Life had taught me that anything that could entice you could weaken you. I ate like a beggar and fought like a king. And I never loved anything that could die, other than my siblings.

My wife didn’t realize it, strolling through the narrow aisles of the minimart, but everybody was staring at her. A shelf stocker fell off his ladder following her with his eyes, a woman with a baby and drab clothes sucked in a breath when she passed her, and a group of pimpled teenagers froze in their spot, practically drooling.

Lila tossed various dry pastas into her basket, along with white truffle butter, cherry jam, and biscotti. When she reached for a top shelf on her toes to grab a lemon panettone, I stepped behind her and put it in the basket myself. The top of her head didn’t even reach my chin. And when I looked down and saw her tiny figure engulfed between my large feet, a visual of her getting brutally raped on Crimson Key by some asshole assaulted my mind, making my fist involuntarily clench.

She ducked her head under my arm, hurrying toward the deli and plucking a number from a ticket dispenser. She paused, realizing I could see that she possessed the forethought to do that.

I nonchalantly strolled to the front of the long line of people and motioned for her to join me. She winced, clearly unhappy about cutting the line, but pointed at what she wanted quickly, not making a scene.

Olives. Glazed artichokes. Focaccia. Tuna-stuffed red chili peppers.

When we headed to the register, her eyes halted on a gelato display.

She needed to gain weight, or her brothers would take her away and my entire operation would flush down the shitters. I snatched her arm and marched her to the gelato. Her eyes flaredat the sight of the pastel-colored ice cream. She swallowed hard, but didn’t make a move.

I led by example, ordering three scoops. She did the same, pointing at the colors. When we got to the register to pay for everything, the owner’s son—a guy in his mid-twenties with a mushroom haircut and juiced-up muscles—couldn’t rip his gaze from her long enough to scan our groceries.

That he had two fucking working eyes to admire her with pissed me off to begin with. On top of that, he looked exactly like the dashing Italian guy she’d probably end up with if she didn’t lie about her condition. It was the cherry on the shit cake. He grinned at her, and she gave him a shy smile. The chances of him living to see next year significantly dropped.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” he cooed.

“She found a husband who owns the entire neighborhood,” I answered on her behalf. His gaze jerked to me. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and his face drained of color.

“Y—yes, sir. Of course. I was just trying to be polite.” Gulping, he pushed our shit faster into grocery bags, forgetting to scan half the items.

“Being too polite to my wife might be hazardous to your health.”

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“Stupidity is not an excuse. This is your first and final warning.”

Once he got everything packed, I sent one of my errand boys to unload the groceries in my apartment and took Lila to the waterline. The direct view was of Rikers Island—not exactly the lights of Paris—and left a lot to be desired. Then again, I never romanced anyone in my life and wasn’t going to make exceptions for my wife.

All the benches overlooking the water were taken, but one wrathful gaze toward an elderly couple occupying the closest bench sent them tumbling to the other end of the street.

Lila settled on the bench; her brows crumpled in disapproval.