“I don’t see the benefit,” Al says, frowning at the road ahead.
“Who benefits from our families going back to war?” I ask, turning to him.
He nods slowly, his eyes narrowing as he thinks through the possibilities. “One of the other families. Luciani’s messy like this.”
I nod, hoping it’s that and not my father-in-law, even though I don’t believe it. Anthony set up the meeting, and then he tried to kill us. Is he so confident that I’d be dead after the attack that he didn’t bother getting his daughter out?
Of course he is. I’m the new kid, green as fuck, with no experience. What chance do I have of making it out alive when a half dozen seasoned killers ambush us?
Uncle Al pulls up to my building and scans the area before stopping. “Let me worry about this,” he says. “You take care of that shoulder and leg. Have your wife take a look at them. I know a man has his pride, but don’t be too proud to let her take care of you when you need it. It might help things between you.”
I don’t think looking weak in front of Eliza, being at her mercy, is going to make things better, but I nod and thank him before reaching for the door handle.
“Oh, and King?” Al says, putting a hand on my good shoulder.
I turn back.
“Thanks,” he said. “You saved my life back there. I won’t forget that.”
“I just did what anyone would do,” I say before climbing out of the car.
As much as I’d like to take the credit, I’m no hero. I acted on instinct alone. And in the end, when there was one guy left, I shot too soon. I was sloppy the whole time. But it’s nice of Al not to mention that, to focus on the one thing I did right, even if it’s not entirely true. I pushed him to the floor when the first shot came, but that doesn’t mean it would have killed him. Hell, if it was Eliza’s doing, the shooter wasn’t even aiming for him.
I ask the doorman for a report, since he’s Al’s man, and thinking my wife is trying to kill me has me a little paranoid. Her bodyguard came with her. He’s on my payroll now, but he might retain ties and loyalties to the Pomponios. After hearing the doorman confirm the details Eliza’s bodyguard already gave, I head upstairs.
I walk into the usual circus. The kitchen looks like the aftermath of a party. The blender sits half full of red slush. Pink liquid dribbles down the cabinets in front of it. Pools of melted ice dot the floor. Bags of frozen fruit sit melting on the counter, along with cups sweating their condensation, snack bags left open, and other detritus of Eliza’s hedonism left scattered across every surface. Five or six girls sit around the living room drinking colorful slushie drinks, along with a new addition to the endless party—two guys.
“What the fuck are they doing here?” I demand, glaring at Eliza.
One of her girlfriends giggles, covering her mouth with the rim of her drink to disguise it.
“Damn,” says Bianca Luciani, one of the other mafia princesses. She elbows Eliza and lowers her voice, but I can still hear her when she murmurs to my wife, “Remind me why you not hittin’ that?”
Her eyes remain on me as she speaks, and suddenly, I’m so fucking done with all this shit. I don’t know what Eliza is telling them, but obviously more than they have any business knowing. And it’s a fucking mystery to me, too. Why am I not fucking my wife again? Obviously her friends all think I’m plenty fuckable.
Why did I get stuck with the frigid bitch who wants to kill me? The one who’d rather spend the afternoon making a disaster of our house than hiring a fucking maid to clean up after her. She goes out shopping and does her nails and sees shows and gossips and has lunches, and she can’t even find time to make one fucking phone call.
I walk in and snatch the drink out of Eliza’s hand. Glaring down at her, I speak to the rest of the room.
“Get the fuck out,” I say, my voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.
Bianca giggles again. “Is he serious?” she asks Eliza, as if I’m not standing right here.
Eliza rolls her eyes. “I told you. I might as well have married an eighty-year-old. He’s like a stuffy old man who ruins all the fun.”
“Get out,” I say between clenched teeth.
“Oh, relax,” Eliza says. “We’re going.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, my eyes burning into hers. “They are.”
“O-kay,” says one of her friends, letting out a nervous giggle. She picks up her bag and edges toward the door. “I’ll just be going…”
Eliza glances at my shoulder, where my shirt is tied, and then back at my face before heaving a burdened sigh. “You really need me for that? It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Get them out of my house,” I growl. “Or don’t. Let them watch. I don’t care. But you’ve got some explaining to do, and you’re not leaving until I get the answers I’m looking for.”
Her chin rises in that defiant little brat expression, but I only stand over her, my gaze boring into hers, my body trembling with rage. Is this the party she threw in celebration of getting rid of me? Did she throw me a wake before I’m even in the fucking ground?