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)
He’s probably thinking of Dante’s Inferno, but I like that. It works. “Like the devil,” I repeat, nodding.
He grins even wider, and I wonder what he’d do if I headbutted him in the mouth as hard as I could. He doesn’t seem to be packing a gun. I’d maul him. I’d tear him to pieces.
“How do you two know each other, then?” Vito goes on. “You must be quite close, having private conversations in hallways.”
“We just met,” I say. “I was just leaving.”
“I thought you were an uncle or somebody I didn’t know about for a second,” the younger man says, tall, lean, and laughing.
“I know. I’m getting old.”
He doesn’t like the way I’m looking at him. It’s the sort of stare that pins a man in his goddamn place, reminds him of who he really is, how small he is. He knows I’m staring him down, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Anyway…” Vito nods to Mia. “Shall we?”
“Uh, sure,” Mia says.
I stare at his hand as she walks away, waiting for him to lay it on her back. Suddenly, I’m ready to sacrifice everything to snap him into pieces, but he doesn’t touch her. Maybe he can sense what I’d do. Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets, whistling as he walks away.
I push open the front door and march across the street to my car, eyes blurry, head feeling hazy. I don’t know what this is. It’s like a protective instinct has just been injected into my bloodstream. “Mia. My fucking Mia,” I almost want to roar. I pull over, park on the sidewalk, and enter the first bar I see.
I walk to the bar like I’m on autopilot, slamming my hand down on it. “Drink. Whisky. A shot.”
My voice is shaking. A skinny barmaid approaches with a leather skirt and leopard print vest. She’s got a golf-ball-sized purple bruise on her arm. She looks cracked out and slightly terrified. Everybody in my world is scared. Dante, the devil. I knock back the whisky, then slide the glass over.
As she pours another, I look around the bar. I almost laugh when I see them. Colt talked to me about fate once. “Everybody in our lives, Dante, there’s a bit of fate in it. Elio and Scarlet. Ruby and Luca. Me and Lexi.” I laughed at the time, but looking at me are three bikers, wannabe tough guys, all eyeing me up like I just walked into their personal playpen.
I drink another shot, then lean against the bar. I can’t stop thinking about Vito and how he casually touched Mia as she announced their engagement. It shouldn’t matter. She’s nobody. She’s the only person who matters. How can she be everything all at the same time?
“Can I help you?” I ask the bikers.
The biggest of them sits up. He’s wearing a leather vest but nothing underneath, so his big hairy arms are on display. “Can we help you?” the man says as they all sit up, exchanging glances as if to say, Is this idiot serious?
“I’m really not in the mood. If you’re going to tell me this is your bar, your little patch to fucking piss on, you can piss off.” My voice slurs toward the end. I don’t often drink. Yet something just broke in me seeing Mia, knowing I’ll never be the same. I make an effort to be more sober, whatever that means.
The big man stands, followed by the two others. “You don’t want any trouble. We don’t want any trouble…”
My vision gets blurry, and then my head shifts and aches badly. I realize I’m standing in the lobby of my building, talking to the doorman. He’s got his hands raised. “Mr. Bianchi, man. Come on.”
I’ve got my hand on his shirt. I let it go and stumble back, my head splitting down the middle. I’m trying to figure out what just happened. Like that, snap, I woke up here. Was I ever at that bar? Are there bars that are that close to the suburbs, biker bars? Each thought is a sharp wedge in my mind, crashing together.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Jesus…” I look outside. Still daytime. “When did I get here?”
“A minute ago,” Jackie says nervously, adjusting his jacket. “You kept saying, did you give her that bruise?”
The girl with the bruise on her arm at the bar. So thin, so unlike my Mia. My Mia. My head swims. “Can I get some water?”
“Sure, sure.”
Jackie goes behind the desk and brings me a cup. I neck it quickly, then slide it across the desk like the whisky glass across the bar. It was so real. Dammit. This hasn’t happened in months at this point. I drink another cup.
“I really am sorry, Jackie. You didn’t deserve that.”
He’s a good kid, a young man trying to make his way in the world with a wife and a baby on the way. “Are you okay, Mr. Bianchi?”