“We have to kill Rinaldo,” he says, staring at his drink. He’s pale and trembling slightly. “How did this happen?”
I want to scream in his face. I fucking told you all he was a monster. I fucking warned you. But I keep my mouth shut.
He drinks his whiskey and shakes his head.
“I need to go talk to her. I should see if she’s doing okay—”
“No, not right now.”
He glares at me. “She’s my sister.”
“She’s dealing with what happened. I don’t think she wants to see anyone.”
“Fuck that.”
“She’s embarrassed, Casso. You ever have someone try to take your body like that before? It fucks you up.”
“Like you know? Are you some fucking expert on that now?”
I clench my jaw and stare at him. “I know better than you do.” I don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need that side of me, the cesspit of my past, the string of crumbling foster homes and all those hands pulling at me. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.
His expression softens. “I know you had a hard life before you came to us. If you say she needs space, I’ll trust you.”
“Good. Believe me.”
His hand tightens around the glass as he throws back the alcohol. “You should’ve fucking killed him on the spot.”
I grimace and feel another spike of anger. “You know I couldn’t.”
“He tried to rape my sister.”
“And I don’t have the authority to unilaterally murder someone in the Famiglia, not even a rapist piece of dog shit like Rinaldo. Don’t go telling me what I should’ve done. She’s safe because of me and that should be enough.”
He grunts and nods. “You’re right. I’m just fucking angry right now, is all.”
“I understand. I’m angry too.” I swirl my glass and watch the liquor float around. “I’ll check in on her before I go and make sure she’s okay. I think she’ll talk to me.”
“Whatever you say. Do you need more men?”
“Depends if he runs or not. If he’s still in town, I can find him myself. Otherwise, I’ll need more boots on the ground.”
“You can have whatever you need. Money, guns, manpower, whatever you want. The Famiglia is at your disposal.”
I stare at the bar top. Any other situation and that phrase, the Famiglia is at your disposal, would send a thrill through my stomach.
It’s the perfect opportunity to find some way to dig my claws into the cracks in their armor and heave them apart.
Except right now all I can do is think about is Karah pleading with Rinaldo to stop and that sick shit’s vicious little smile as he refused.
“Tell the others and warn them that she’ll have bruises for a while.”
“Bruises?”
“On her throat.”
He curses and pours another drink. “I’ll tell the family.”
“Don’t go into detail, all right? Tell them Rinaldo attacked her.”
“I’ll protect her, don’t worry.”
“Good.” I finish my drink and walk to the door. “I’ll kill him, Casso. Don’t worry.”
“If there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s finding people and ending their lives. I’m not worried at all.”
I nod at him and step into the hallway.
When the door’s shut, I put one hand against the wall and take steadying breaths. I don’t know how I let myself get this close to these people—but suddenly it hits me how much I care.
About Casso. About Fynn and Gavino. Even Karah in a twisted way.
Some part of me wants to burn their mansion to the ground with all of them inside of it, and the other wants to keep them all safe.
Now I feel further from my revenge than I ever have before.
I head upstairs again and knock on Karah’s door. She doesn’t answer, so I gently open it and stick my head inside.
She’s lying on the bed wrapped in her sheets. Her eyes are open and she stares at me as I step forward, not coming closer than a couple feet beyond the threshold.
Her room is pink and blue with lots of gauzy lace and landscape paintings hung on the walls. Her vanity is draped with jewelry and photos of friends from her days in high school—though I doubt she sees them much anymore. Not with how protective her family can be. Books line the windowsills and pillows and blankets are piled on a comfortable reading chair tucked in the far corner.
It reeks of her. The smell, the sights, all of it. Her closet overflows with clothes, and big sketchbooks filled with charcoal drawings are piled in stacks on the dresser to my right. I catch a glimpse of a portrait of her brother Fynn—it’s very good. I knew she was talented, but I hadn’t seen her work in a while.
I avoid her room as much as I can.
“You okay?” I ask, trying to keep the anger from my voice.
It’s not directed at her. It’s directed at this place—this room—and how it makes me feel.
Confused, conflicted. Possessive.