Life was lonely until I met Alex sophomore year. He was new in school and we had an art class together. We got paired up for a project and ended up bonding over books and movies and music, and soon we were eating lunch together, hanging out after school, and spending most of our free time on the weekends wandering around the city. People thought we were dating, but it was never like that with him. Alex was a doughy, idealistic kid with big dreams.
He wanted to be a made man. I tried to talk him out of it again and again, but the more time we spent together, the more he wanted to hang around with my father and all the other family men. I’d find him lingering in the den when my father had his card games, sometimes fetching them drinks and lighting cigars. He’d show up at the corner deli and talk to the made men that got sandwiches and drank beers out back.
I never understood his obsession. I asked him about it one time when we were sitting on the swings in an empty park after midnight. He had a cigarette in his mouth and he took a long drag and let the smoke curl out of his mouth in slow, thick waves. He turned his head toward me and smiled.
“I like that they’re strong,” he said. “They don’t ask permission. They just… do what they want.”
I laughed and didn’t know what he meant, not back then at least, but now I think I get it. Alex was a dorky, chubby kid that got picked on by bigger, older guys at school all the time. In his head, if he was a made man, nobody could touch him.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they’d never make him, not in a million years—that he was too soft, or too eager, or all of the above.
Not that it mattered. I never had to tell him. He figured it out himself the hard way.
I turned off the water and squeezed my hair. I banished his memory, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around my middle. I stepped out into my room to get changed—and found a dress bag draped across my bed.
I stared at it and felt my anger spike. I stormed out of my room and down the steps, still in only a towel, my hair damp.
I found Reid standing in the kitchen wearing a deep black suit with a white shirt and no tie. I opened my mouth to speak then caught myself.
He looked good. Really good. I hadn’t seen him dressed up like that yet, but the suit fit him right, slim along his legs, tight on his chest and arms, and it made his scruff seem almost elegant. His eyes sparkled amusement as he tilted his head and let his eyes roam down my body. I immediately regretted coming down in my towel but forced myself to plow ahead.
“Why’s there a dress bag in my room?”
“We’ve got plans tonight.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do. We’re going out to dinner.”
I stared at him and took a deep breath. “I thought I made myself clear. No presents.”
He stepped toward me and for a moment I felt a spike of fear. Maybe it was the look in his eye, or maybe it was that he didn’t smile—or maybe it was that I was in only a towel and at my most vulnerable.
“And I thought I made myself clear that we’d have to do things together.”
“I didn’t know we were starting tonight.”
“Now you do. Go upstairs and put on the dress.”
“No.”
He stepped closer. “I’ve been nice to you, Cora. Don’t make me be mean.”
“What are you gonna do, huh? Hit me?”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to hit you. I’m going to rip off that towel, carry you upstairs, and dress you myself. You want me to do that?”
“Asshole. You won’t touch me.”
“I’ll touch you, and we’ll both like it.”
I stared at him and he stared back. I knew that his threat wasn’t empty—I could see it in the way he inched toward me, that he’d grab me and drag me upstairs and strip me if that’s what it took.
I knew the look in his eye. I knew men like him.
“Fine,” I said, turning away. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“You’ve got ten.”
I flinched, but said nothing as I stormed upstairs.
I never should’ve done this. I should’ve stayed away from the mafia. I should’ve left the city after Alex died and started my life over, but I was too deep in my own grief to see that obvious fact, and now it was too late. I let my greed and anger and self-loathing make this decision for me, and now I was stuck with him, stuck in this house, and unable to figure out how I’d get past any of it.