“I don’t know. Did you talk to Casso?”
“I told him. I’m going to find Rinaldo.”
She nods and starts blinking again, fighting tears. I want to go to her, but what the hell can I say?
It gets better?
It does, but it doesn’t.
The wounds heal but the scars remain. They might fade, but it never goes away, not really. I can teach her how to harden herself to the world, how to wrap herself in so much hate that all she sees is blood and darkness and revenge, but that won’t fix it.
Nothing can fix it.
“Thank you,” she manages to say. Her voice is an ugly croak. I’ll make sure Casso gets her a doctor to make sure there’s no serious damage.
“Don’t thank me. I was just doing my job.”
“You went out of your way to warn me. If it weren’t for you, he would’ve—” She stops, unable to say it.
“I was just doing what your brother would’ve wanted.”
That’s a lie. I was searching for her because I wanted to.
Because I was jealous of her marriage to Rinaldo and scared for her.
But why the hell did I care at all? Why, when I hate her and them and everything?
Nothing makes sense, and I despise my own conflicted weakness most of all. I’ve sacrifice so much to get here, and now is not the time to give in.
“What am I going to do?” she asks, shifting slightly to sit up. The blanket stays draped over her shoulders like a poncho.
“Stay in here. Casso won’t bother you, I told him not to. I’m going to find Rinaldo and make sure he pays.”
“You don’t have to do it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Someone else can. You’ve done enough already.”
I give her a flat stare. “This is my mess to clean up.”
“Nico.” She bites her lip and I wonder what it would taste like to lick the tears from her face. “Why do you hate me?”
Her voice is like an iron rod shoved down my spine.
Pain and desire war in my body.
I don’t answer. I turn away and look at the charcoal sketches again, at the thick, dark lines, the shading and the highlights.
Why do I hate her?
Sometimes I wonder.
“Get some rest,” I say and leave before she can press harder.
I wasn’t ready. She didn’t need me to list all her faults, not right now, not after what happened.
Later, when the wound is scabbed and the bruises fade, I’ll tell her what I think.
That she’s a spoiled brat.
That she’s been given everything and deserves none of it.
That her brothers are a bunch of monsters and killers.
That her father ruined my life and left me a ruined, empty husk of a man.
That I am nothing, nothing but a twisted, ruined shell—because of her family.
I’ll tell her the truth one day.
But not now. Not yet.
First, I’ll find Rinaldo and put a bullet in his skull.
All for the girl I hate.
Chapter 9
Karah
In my dream, the same dream I’ve been having for most of my life, my father is hunched over a body.
This time, it’s a woman, but I can’t make out her face. The light is all wrong—it’s pulsing like we’re at the bottom of a pool—and my father’s office looks like a distorted nightmare. The books are too big, the fireplace roars with a blue flame, and the carpet seems to shift and writhe like worms crawl beneath its surface.
Papa’s hands are wrapped around the woman’s throat and he’s squeezing so hard his knuckles are white and his face is bright red and distended with veins.
It’s always the same. At least once a week for years and years. Papa strangles a faceless person—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman—and I only stand there watching.
I can’t move, no matter what I do, and there’s no stopping it.
Papa strangles the person until their body hangs limp and he releases them, and I’m screaming, screaming, screaming, but no sounds come out, and I don’t wake up until Papa turns around and smiles.
It’s haunted me ever since that night—the night I can barely remember, the blur in my mind too painful for me to look at too closely.
I stay wrapped in my blankets, drenched in sweat. The dream won’t go away, and I keep feeling Rinaldo’s hands on my throat—Papa’s hands on my throat?—and smell his rancid breath as he shoves me against the wall.
None of this makes any sense.
Rinaldo’s attack, Nico’s protection, none of it.
I hate Rinaldo, but even worse, I hate myself.
I was given every chance to walk away, but instead I put myself in danger, and I paid the price.
Because I’m stupid and naive, and that’s all I’ll ever be.
A stupid, naive little girl.
A knock at my door. I raise my head—it’s after six at night.
I must’ve fallen asleep at some point.
“Yes?” I say and my voice is an ugly croak.
The door opens and Elise steps inside. Her hands fly to her face as I shuffle and sit up. Her eyes stare at my throat and I know what she’s seeing—ugly, mottled bruises where Rinaldo’s fingers jammed into my flesh.