Oh, god, Mal. Oh, god, Carmine.
I was going to fail them both, and I didn’t know if I could live with the crushing shame.
Chapter 18
Capri
It was a crisp evening in downtown San Antonio. The lights along the river trail were bright and twinkling, and people ate outside of overpriced restaurants, mingling with family and friends, tossing back wine and appetizers, laughing loudly, enjoying life.
My ribs hurt every time I took a breath. But at least I could walk without a limp.
Maxim was a specter by my side. He’d picked me up in a black BMW and parked in a garage. We’d barely spoken the whole time, and he seemed distracted as he strolled along, watching the water roll lazily past down below.
“Have you always lived in this city?” he asked, not looking at me. I wasn’t sure why he was distracted, but I didn’t mind.
I kept thinking about Mal. About those texts. As soon as I got back to the room the night before after surviving that beating, I pulled my phone from its hiding spot and read all the messages, beginning to end.
He’d done it. Killed Clem. Scratched off another name. I’d texted him that I was fine and I’d see him again soon. He pressed for more information, but I didn’t respond.
I couldn’t bring myself to.
“Since I was born,” I said, trying to smile. Wearing heels was like standing in lava, but Dad had insisted. He won’t want to marry a flat-footed troll, Capri. “It’s a decent town. What about you? Always been in Dallas?”
“My dad’s from Russia. We go back there every few months. Otherwise, always been in Dallas.”
“Do you like it? Russia, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Different place. It’s not so bad. It has a bad reputation here, but the people are just people, like anywhere else. I think they hate the West because we have warm, temperate climates, and they just get snow.”
I laughed softly and ran my hand down the metal railing. “Russians should try living in Texas in the summer. They’d probably feel sorry for us and get rid of all their nukes.”
“That or they’d invade, desperate to escape their Siberian gulags.”
“That’s just trading a cold gulag for a hot one.”
“Try telling them that. They’re too busy drinking vodka to care.”
“Is that true? It’s such a cliché.”
“Unfortunately, it’s accurate. At least for the people I know back in the motherland. Though I’ll admit most of them are gangsters and crooks.”
I grinned and stopped at the edge of a short walkway bridge. I leaned over and looked down at the light-glistening water and let the sounds of people and life wash over me. Maxim stood with his back against the railing, looking out at the tables and the mingling couples and the crowds.
“Speaking of family,” he said, “can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead. Might as well start sharing all our deep, dark secrets, since we’re getting married.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got dark secrets?”
“Tons of them.”
“Give me one.”
I touched my finger to my lips. “I collect serial killer memorabilia. You know, scraps of Charles Manson’s hair. That sort of thing. What about you?”
“I am a serial killer. Want an autograph?”
I grinned and shook my head. “Sorry. You’re not famous enough. Keep up the good work though.”
He smiled back and sighed, turning his neck to the side. “Seriously though. I’ve been wondering about your father. Are you two close?”
I tensed my grip on the railing. Thought of Rolando beating me while my father watched.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Does he discuss his business with you?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Do you ever ask him about it?”
“No, and I’m starting to wonder why you’re asking me this.”
He shrugged and sighed. “I know you don’t want to get married. I’m trying to understand how much agency you have in this arrangement, and how worried I should be about breaking it off.”
I almost choked on my words, but I managed to keep myself together. “We don’t have to break it off. Really, there’s no reason—”
He held up a hand. His gaze was dark and piercing. “Stop lying to me. You’re bad at it and I’m not interested in wasting my time.”
I clenched my jaw shut and stared, mind racing. I didn’t know how much I could trust this man, but I did know that if he broke things off then I’d end up in that dungeon room again. I couldn’t help Mal from there, and I’d only waste away until I was nothing, rotting like a sick tree.
Maybe I deserved it. It was my fault Carmine died. Mal was suffering and pushing himself through Hell to get revenge, and I could barely manage to keep up my end of the bargain. I let myself kiss him, touch him, flirt with him, and I didn’t deserve it. Not really. Mal would add me to his list when he found out what I’d done, but I was too much of a coward to tell him.