My breath catches and I falter. "No. No, Max. Never." It dawns on me in this moment that I may be the only female who has ever truly loved him. For all his pieces - good and bad. Sharing my love with another, just as important, might truly distress him.
It's a different kind of love.
Of course, I know that. But how could he possibly know? How could he know that when he's never felt the love of a mother? My heart breaks for him. Like it always does when I think about that kind of emotional neglect.
"It's a different kind of love, Max." Pressing my hands to his cheeks, I bring my lips to his. His are stiff with defiance at first, so I coax them with mine. Coax the concern from them. From him. His hand drops to the lowest part of my back, pushing me closer, as he accepts my kiss. My mouth moves over his lovingly. My tongue sweeps out to massage his. I can feel his frown on my forehead. Feel his rough exhales against my chest. The longer we kiss, the looser his body becomes, the steadier his breaths. He succumbs to our affections - submits to them.
Like I do.
Our food arrives and Max growls quietly at the interruption. We break our connection, and I stare down at creamy chicken and mushroom risotto with freshly grated parmesan cheese, lemon, and truffle. I immediately salivate. I smile at Max. "I think he gets his credit."
After I finish all of my risotto and a piece of garlic bread, we exit the restaurant. Max's arm is draped over my shoulder but in no way relaxed on it.
I notice Carter from across the piazza and smile, but then my face falls at his expression. I follow his piercing stare. An elderly Italian lady is suddenly blocking our path, bowed slightly with her hands clasped together in a prayer-like position.
When she reaches for Max's arm, he forces me behind him, blocking me with his tall strong body. Her fingers cling to him with desperation, as if he is the only thing tethering her to earth. Twisting his free arm behind his back, he touches the gun I know is tucked down his jeans. I nearly lunge to stop him, but he's not drawing it out. Just tapping it with his finger.
This little lady must be in her eighties. Speaking in Italian and English, her words are expelled between sobs and whimpers.
She wails. "Please! Please.Tis to implorando. Where is my Marco?" She won't look Max directly in the eyes, instead gazing at his shoes. As if hewereGod andcouldactually smite her down. "Lui e un bravo ragazzo!"
I shuffle backwards. Max tries to gently shake her off, but then Carter is upon her, dragging her away. Her fingers slip from Max's arm. The tether broken. She reaches out for him with desperation, her gaze rising to meet his. Her face crumbles and with trembling fingers, she makes the sign of the cross over her chest before clasping her hands together again.
My heart races.
My breath stops abruptly in my throat when she glances past Max and spears me with her bloodshot eyes. "Please," she cries. "Tis to implorando."
I suck at the thick hot air as tears flood my face. Wanting to rush to her, to hold her, to help her, I dig my heels into the pavement to stop them from moving. Max whirls around to face me, grips me by the elbow, and steers me in the opposite direction.
My eyes are torn from hers.
But I can still hear her.
Hear her wailing with absolute heartbreak behind me."Mafioso. Mafioso."
Mafioso.
Cassidy
Max dragsme to a nearby car. A man I've never seen before is sitting in the driver's seat.
"Get in," Max orders, opening the door and guiding me onto the squeaky black seats. He leans across me, buckling my seatbelt in, and I'm so glad he did because I'm not sure my trembling hands would have managed. The driver's eyes shift around, but when they meet mine, they cut back to the road ahead. "Keep your fucking eyes off her. Drive her straight home. Walk her inside. Bronson will be there."
My shoulders rise and fall as I draw in shaky, shallow breaths.
Max goes to leave, so I lunge for him and wrap my fingers around his forearm. "Come with me," I beg.
"I'll be home soon." He leans back into the car, placing his hand on the leather seat to my side. That scent of his, whiskey and man and Max, soothes me. I know how I should feel. My concern should be with that woman and it is, and yet, it's Max's heart - his darkness - I am committed to understand. To lighten.
As I raise my chin to accept his lips, he freezes and scowls over my head. His whole mien turns steel-like. He crushes his teeth together and exhales angrily through his nose. He squeezes the seat, the leather protesting within his white-knuckled grip.
My pulse beats hard in my throat. Beats in my ears. Head. I twist around, following his death stare out the passenger side window to a parked black SUV. Two men sit inside, both sets of eyes drilling holes through our vehicle. Are they policemen? Jimmy's men?
"Fuck," he bites out, then glares at his driver. "You have never been given a more important job. Get her home." As I reach for Max again, he closes the door.
The absence of him sinks my heart. Is he in danger? I sit up as the car pulls away and watch as Max walks back towards the restaurant. I look down at my fingers, now scrunched into fists, shaking in my lap.
Trees and cars start to blur as we pass them, becoming formless streams of colour. The man driving does as he was instructed - never once peering back at me. I shuffle my feet around. Shift my weight. Pick at my nail polish.