“Then how would you know?” I press. I can feel I’ve hit a sore spot, and I want to keep poking it, the way my thumb will keep finding a bruise, worrying it. Poking it to make sure it still hurts, that I can still feel something, that I’m still part human. I’ve spent half my life proving to myself that I’m still alive, that I’m not numb anymore. I’ve drank and partied and danced and fought with my friends and made out with guys, all in a quest to prove that I still feel, that I’m not a monster.
“I don’t,” King snaps. “Forget it.”
“Who are you talking about, King?” I press. “I heard you and your brothers moved to the South with your dad. That means you’re talking about him. He’s such a big hero for leaving your mom alone in the city?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“See how it feels when someone acts like they know you?” I ask, though I want to ask about his sister, his parents, his brothers. I want to know everything about him. There is more to this man than I know, so much more. But it’s dangerous to go down that path, because knowing someone means caring about them, and I can’t care more. It brings us too close, brings him too close to the truth that I swore I’d never tell. I don’t get close to people for this very reason. My secrets are too dark, too horrible. If I let someone in, I’ll care, and when they find out the truth, they’ll leave, and I won’t survive another blow like that.
I bend and pick up my clothes, turning away from the bed before pulling on my bra and reaching behind me to hook it closed.
“It was your mom, wasn’t it?”
My hands freeze, and I just stand there with my fingers paralyzed on the clasp, the hooks an inch from engaging. “What?”
“It was your mom,” he says. “That’s why you aren’t triggered by touching a man, even in the most intimate ways. You’re only freaked out when I touch you.”
“So?” My voice is small, like a little girl’s when she’s sitting on the tile floor, refusing to stand up, to unwrap her arms from around her knees, even though she knows she’ll be punished, but she can’t do it because she knows she’ll fly apart if she’s not holding herself together so, so carefully.
King’s hands are tentative on my hips, tugging me back with gentle insistence. My body tenses, and he stops pulling, but his hands are there, warm through my jeans. But he doesn’t push. He just sits there, not making me do anything, not even look at him. The tears on my face are silent this time. They come quick and steady, like a rain that could wash away the pain and the dirt and the glue I’ve used to patch myself up every time I start to break, the glue that holds every jagged edge together.
He doesn’t say a word, but he’s there. And I’m too tired to run away, to hide and lick my wounds and take a shot and dance and pretend I’m happy or strong or free. I’ll never be free until I stop pretending. And I’m tired of pretending that I believed her when she said she loved me or that she did it for me; tired of pretending that she’s a hero for striking out on her own as if that made her brave and not just a coward who knew her life would be over if her husband found out the things she did to his daughter in the bathtub. I’m too tired to patch myself up even one more time.
So, I let myself fall, and this man, my husband, my king, he catches me. His skin is rough, but his hands are gentle as he takes me in his arms and holds me. And I know I don’t have to hold myself together alone anymore. Or pretend I’m whole, that I’m not scarred and cracked and dirty like the pavement on the streets outside. I can break apart, fall into a million pieces. I know that he will catch me every time I fall, that he will pick me up and hold all my pieces together as long as I need him to, and he won’t break or drop or lose a single one. He’ll just hold them until I’m ready to start the slow and painful process of building myself back into the girl I once was, before the person who was supposed to love her broke her instead.
That wasn’t love. This is love.
nineteen
King
“You ready?” Uncle Al asks, drawing me into the room where I first met his men, the room where I took the oath.
I’m not ready. How could I be ready? I didn’t want to leave Eliza’s side, but I know I have to. I can’t hover around her forever, as much as I want to. I’m ready to take my mind off her confessions for a few hours, and that’s going to have to be good enough. I’ve already pleaded out of a few days of work and rushed home to her after every job for the next week, ever since she admitted the truth about her abuser and fell to pieces in my arms. She’s probably sick of my face by now, if I’m honest.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Your shoulder all healed up?”
“Yeah,” I say, rotating my arm. “Good as new.”
Al steps back into the room, gesturing for me to follow. Around the table sit five of his seasoned men and his consigliere. Besides them, a guy stands in the corner like a six-and-a-half-foot marble statue covered in ink from his chin to the backs of his huge hands, which he holds crossed in front of him as he waits, staring into the room with blank eyes.
“What’s up?” I ask Al, turning away from the unnerving giant. I’m suddenly running over what I told Al about the Lucianis and Eliza’s confession. My throat tightens as I think how easily someone could throw my name out there, and it would be me walking the plank.
“We’re going to pay Luciani a visit,” Al says. “I normally wouldn’t take a rookie, but since you were shot, you might like a chance to see justice served.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“This is Divo Bertinelli,” Al says, cutting his eyes toward the giant but not stepping toward him. “He’ll be joining us.”
I realize in that small gesture that even the great Al Valenti himself is ill at ease with the man I’ve heard of but never met. His name precedes him, as Little Al and the other guys refer to him by his nickname, Il Diavolo. If my job is breaking fingers, his is breaking necks. His specialty is getting men to talk, so it makes sense he’s coming along, since we still don’t know who tipped off Luciani and his men. If Al’s going after Lou Luciani himself, he must have found enough information to be sure that the men who ambushed us were sent by Bianca’s family, hired goons who weren’t supposed to make it out alive or lead us back to them if they failed.
Of the eight men paying Luciani a visit, I’m by far the youngest, though it’s hard to tell about Il Diavolo. The tattoos and hardened expression make him look older than he probably is. The rest of the guys range from around thirty to fifty, all seasoned veterans whom Al trusts with his life.
“Lou’s house has four guards,” Al says, grabbing a paper from the table and making a few quick lines to sketch out the house, pointing to the rear and front entrances. The house is a row-style one, he explains, so there’s no chance of entering through a side window. A few minutes later, we’re all strapped and piling into a pair of black SUVs. Al takes the passenger seat of one, another of his men driving while Il Diavolo and I sit in the back. Conversation is limited to a few small comments.
We reach Luciani’s building without issue. His building is a three-story townhouse style that stretches as long as the street, each home with a different colored exterior. The front of the building has a small, wrought-iron fence with arching gateways leading to the steps, which lead to the entrance on the second level. Luciani’s place is set apart by the grey exterior and thick, wooden double doors without windows. One guy stands outside, but we don’t stop. We follow the street and double back around to the back of the building.