Page 50 of Sweet Venom

“Do you need my help with going to the hospital…?”

He says nothing, just types on his phone with one hand.

“Are we back to silence now? Got it. So much for worrying.” I bend over and grab my books.

When I straighten, Mario’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. “You should be more worried about why professional killers shot at you.”

“P-professional killers? Why?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He squints more. “Who have you pissed off so much that they’d hire professional killers to eliminate you?”

“Aside from your boss? No one.” My nails dig into the books. “Isn’t this one of his sick games?”

Mario says nothing. A few moments later, a car with tinted windows rolls to a halt beside us, and I jerk back, the remnants of the adrenaline buzzing in my blood.

But then Mario opens the back door, his arm still dripping with blood, and tells me, “Get in.”

“No.”

“Please get in so I can drop you off and go get treated, Violet.”

“I can go home on my own?—”

“Out of the question. Not when someone is out for your life. Jude would kill me if he knew I left you on the street after what just happened.”

“Pretty sure he’d do the same, though, so it’d be as if someone cut his expenses.” I try to joke with the only dark humor I know, but Mario isn’t laughing, and the driver is tapping his finger on the wheel impatiently.

So I sigh and slide in.

I don’t want Mario to get in trouble because of me. I’msure he’d rather be doing something better with his time than following a boring girl like me.

And he needs to have his arm checked.

I’m shaking the entire ride, though. Because who would hire someone to kill me?

I’ve gone out of my way not to offend anyone—aside from Jude.

He must be the one behind this. There’s no one who wants me to suffer more than him.

My mind is still racingas I push the lasagna into the creaking oven. I really hope it doesn’t break down. I’m scared that our current landlord will be like all the previous ones and not care about repairs. In the past, we had to fix things ourselves while being told, ‘You’re lucky to find a cheap place so close to town.’

I pull out the two remaining cans of ginger ale from the case and frown as I set them down on the counter. Dahlia buys these for me because I once said I liked the taste. Ever since then, she’s stopped buying her favorite soft drink—Dr. Pepper—so I buy it for her.

But I forgot today because I can’t stop thinking about the attack this afternoon and whether or not Mario is okay. He left as soon as he dropped me off, but I could tell he’d lost a lot of blood, judging by the mess on the car’s carpet.

Not that I should be worried about him, but he did save my life and got shot protecting me, so I can’t pretend not to care.

If anything, I feel guilty that he’s hurt because of me, and I keep having flashbacks from all the times Mama called me a curse.

As soon as I got home, I took a shower, dressed in a dark blue shirt that reaches my knees, and got busy with cooking so I wouldn’t allow those thoughts to take over.

But I find myself doing that anyway.

Overthinking. Overanalyzing.

Blaming myself.

I squat down to the last drawer beneath the counter that I use for extra storage. Rummaging through the worn-out tote bags and old, slightly chipped cups, I pull out a chocolate tin from when I was young.