Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
One second, he talks like I’m his wife, his real wife, and he’d burn the city down for me.
Then the next, I’m only some temporary stand-in, a stopgap before the real thing.
“I wish you would reconsider,” he says finally.
“I won’t.” I turn away then head back to Phel and Helen. “I’d appreciate some privacy with my friends.”
“That’s my sister,” he points out.
“Still a friend.” I wave him off, smiling to myself. I don’t get to win arguments with him often, but it feels good when I score a point.
Chapter 43
Evander
Every muscle in my body groans with weariness.
Days spent patrolling. Nights spent hunting. Every moment of every waking hour is accounted for. I’ve thrown myself into the war with the Italians with every ounce of my being, killing as many of their men as I can, ruthlessly taking the fight to their doorstep.
I’m breaking myself to make them suffer.
And I’m breaking the city too.
The heat’s on. The cops are out in force, threatening to bring us all down if we can’t find a way to stop the violence.
I still don’t care.
“You’ve been single-minded lately, Evander.” Mother walks beside me, her hands clasped behind her back. She wears a long black dress, flowing and loose, her hair pulled up and tucked under a broad-brimmed hat. We stroll through the flower garden on the far side of the house, away from where Camille visits with Helen and her friend, Ophelia.
“Our enemies are closing in, Mother.” I glance up at the sky. “I have to admit, I worried about this exact situation. I stressed about getting into an all-out shooting war with the Italians. Now that it’s here, I find myself enjoying it.”
She clucks her tongue. “That’s not becoming of a crime lord like you, Evander.”
“Am I not supposed to want to ruin our enemies?”
“You are supposed to want to further the fortunes of the family.” She glances at me, her eyes guarded and hard. “You aren’t supposed to go to war over a girl.”
My jaw works. “She’s my wife.”
“Is she? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”
“Mother—”
“Your friend Gareth will solve the problem sooner or later. He’s a clever boy with a lot of resources. But in the meantime, your wife is still married to an Italian Capo. Your captains are under control only because they have a different enemy to deal with, but what happens when the Italians sue for peace? What do you do then, Evander?”
“I refuse and kill them.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Mother stops walking and faces me. “I like Camille. I really, really do. But you can’t go on like this.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I can’t look at her right now. There’s a reason I avoid speaking with my mother as much as possible. She reminds me too much of the man I used to be, back before my life changed, back before I became the lord.
I was a different person then. Less angry, less violent. I did my part for the family, but the weight of everyone’s fortunes weren’t squarely on my shoulders. I could laugh more, I could think more.
Now, my days are consumed with violence and the responsibilities of leadership.
And with Camille.
Mother says, “You care about her.”
“She’s my wife. I care about her.”
“Evander,” she says, tone sharp. “When will you stop treating me like an idiot? I have survived in this family for longer than you’ve been alive, boy. You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing with her?”
I go very still. Did Lycus tell her? Did Camille? I knew my wife wasn’t the best liar in the world, but we discussed this. Keep the secret at all costs. Play the game, keep our heads down. Wait for the storm to pass, for the danger to dissipate.
How does my mother know?
“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Mother,” I say cautiously.
“You don’t wear the ring.” Mother slips her hand through my arm and leans against me. “Maybe the others haven’t noticed, but I did.”
I stiffen slightly. Not at her touch, but at how perceptive she can be. “I don’t like rings,” I say softly.
“Why? Because your father never wore one?”
I shake my head, unable to answer.
She sighs as we begin to walk again. “Your father loved you, Evander. He loved you more than you realize.”
“I looked up to him.” I can see my father in my memory still, a massive man, tall and broad, a Kazan through and through. He taught me everything: how to fight, how to tell jokes, how to cook, how to live. I loved that man. I still love that man. When he died, it was like losing a piece of me, a piece that not even revenge brought back.
“You probably didn’t know this, but your father didn’t wear a ring because he was allergic to gold.”