“Phi, look at me. Let me see your face.”
She starts shaking her head, but I interrupt her and take a step closer. I’ll force her to turn around if it comes down to it.
“Phi,” I say, “let me see you.”
Seconds pass and nothing happens. Her two cats sit perched on their posts, watching me with open suspicion. The sounds of the city street play from outside the wide windows of her high-rise apartment. I’m willing to wait however long I need to in order to get the truth out of her.
Finally, when she can’t stall any more, she releases a slow sigh, and then turns around.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says quickly. “I was riding the subway last night and some man tried to steal my purse. I fought him off, but as you can see, he got in a couple of hits. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want the public to know.”
More silence passes between us.
I’m quiet and composed on the outside as we stare at each other, but on the inside, it’s another story. I’m fantasizing about the moment I get my hands on the piece of trash who did this to her. He must’ve thought he could get away with what he did. Putting his hands on the woman who is mine even if she doesn’t agree that she is.
I’ll break his face. And every other bone in his body. He’ll watch himself bleed out as I laugh and play in his blood.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been in agoodfight. One that’s messy. One that’s violent and bloody.
But Delphine’s lying.
Even as my bloodlust pulses hot in my veins, she’s keeping things from me.
Consider me an expert on bruises and other injuries. I’ve inflicted enough and had enough of them inflicted on me to know what’s what.
She’s claiming he got some hits in—the bruising and scrape along the side of her face and chin are no regular bruises. They’re from colliding with a rough, rocky surface. Likely repeatedly. The baggy hoodie she’s wearing is intentional, probably hiding other injuries. She has a slight limp to her gait, though she tries her best to hide it.
Her story doesn’t match her injuries.
But it’s not even the biggest clue she’s lying. Her eyes reveal every word she’s told me is a lie. There’s an unease in them that’s normally not present, like any loud noise or bang will trigger her.
“What happened to him?” I ask in my low, controlled tone. This needs to be handled a certain way or she’ll shutdown and kick me out. “Did you call the cops?”
She shakes her head. “It was late and he got away. I told you I don’t want the public to know.”
“Which station was this?”
“The one on Fifth and Warring.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him,” she says, tightening her arms around her torso. “It happened so fast. I was more concerned with holding onto my purse.”
“And he just tried to snatch your purse? Nobody else was around?”
“It was almost nine p.m. There wasn’t a lot of people at the station. He tried to grab onto my purse and I put up a fight. He hit me and then took off.”
I take a step closer. She takes one back. “He hit you. He struck you in the face?”
Her eyes take on a glassy effect and she nods as her answer.
Definitely lying. But why?
“I’ll handle it,” I say calmly, sticking a hand in my pocket. “We’ll find the SOB and you won’t have to worry about him.”
“No! No street justice.Nomafia justice. If those words even belong in the same sentence. They’re an oxymoron. Salvatore, don’t get involved. It happened. It was horrible. I hate that it did, but I want to move on. Iwillmove on. I… I just need a couple of days. You wanted me to let you in. I did. Now I need you to promise me you’ll leave it alone, okay? Give me your word.”
“Alright, if that’s what you want. Consider it dropped.”