Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“I don’t care about my own happiness.”
“What a vicious, cruel thing to say.”
Suddenly, Mom bursts into pained tears. I’ve gone too far. I’ve let out too much real emotion. She hunches over, the sobs obviously hurting her stomach. I quickly move across the living room and kneel beside her. Mom shifts her shirt, a habit that started the day she got her colostomy bag. I know how much she hates it.
“I’m sorry, Ma.” I put my hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She feels so brittle, so thin. Mom’s the only person I have a heart for, and it’s breaking. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I mean it; that was wrong of me. I usually make more of an effort. Once, I even asked Colt to come and sit in a diner with us and pretend to be an old friend. I don’t want Mom knowing just how alone I am—alone and not caring, not wanting to be around people unless I’m hurting them.
Bad people, that is—demons who deserve it.
“Ma,” I say when she keeps crying.
“I… don’t… want… you…wasting… your… life!”
“Taking care of you isn’t a waste.”
“What about when I’m gone?” she hisses as I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “What will you have? Who will you have?”
I almost groan. Maybe she’s going to start talking about me dating again. She’s dropped hints—more than hints—several times recently. She doesn’t want to pass away without seeing me with a woman.
“I’ve got friends, Ma.”
She frowns at me. “I hate when you lie.”
I wince. “Lie?”
“You say you have friends, but I’m not a fool, Dante. Maybe I was, but why have I only ever met one once? That lovely man, Colt. That was his name, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Apart from him, nobody, ever. Please try. For me. Please.”
I clench my fists, not in anger toward my mother, but a general flaring of rage. I’m going to have to do this. I can’t tell her no, not when she’s so desperate, so sure.
“Does it really mean that much to you, me going to a party?”
She sits back and folds her arms. For a moment, she looks like the old Sofia, the woman I remember from when I was a kid, a woman carved of iron. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it does.”
I suppress a groan.
“And,” she goes on, “I want a photo. Ask somebody at the party to take your picture. I don’t want you driving around aimlessly, then coming home and telling me you went to a party.”
I could tell her no, but if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being good to my mother. All the other stuff—the darkness, the work, the killing—is just part of who I am. I feel nothing about it. Or try to feel nothing, even if it sometimes makes me grin like a ghoul.
Mom matters. She deserves the truth.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll do it if it means that much to you.”
For the first time in a month, Mom’s smile seems genuine.
Sitting outside the Marino residence, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. What is this feeling, exactly? Nerves? I look across at the large suburban house, at least a six-bedroom place. Leonardo and Alessia Marino moved from their apartment this year, wanting a better place to host their grandkids, Colt told me.
There are dozens of cars lining the street, a few in the driveway, and people in fancy suits and dresses walking toward the house.
I turn, my hand darting for my gun, when there’s a knock on my window. It’s Colt, holding his hands up in a sign of peace. The man has a smile on his face I never would’ve imagined when I first met him.
Rolling down the window, I say, “You trying to get yourself shot?”
“It’s not usually so easy to sneak up on you,” he smirks. “I saw you sitting out here. What’s up? Building up the courage?”
“Just wondering what I’m doing here, I guess,” I tell him.
“That’s easy… having fun as a valued member of the Marino Family.”
“I think I preferred you before you were happy.”
Colt laughs gruffly. “You didn’t know me when I was really miserable. When we met, I’d found my woman again. If we’d met when I was a real cold bastard, even you would’ve found me depressing.”
“I doubt that.”
“Come on.” He nods toward the house.
I climb from the car. “Listen, Colt. My ma basically begged me to come here. She wants a photo from the party for proof. Will you—”
“No damn way,” Colt cuts in.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” I snap.
“Yeah, I do. You want me to snap a quick photo so you actually don’t have to spend any time at the party. Am I wrong?”
“Goddamn it,” I grunt.
Together, we walk across the lawn toward the house.
Then, something breaks in me. What the hell? My heart is pounding so hard, with far more intensity than it does when I’m on a job, hurting people and smiling like a mad, broken thing.