But she’s there in my home, in the house I grew up in, lying in the room my father used to occupy. Well—it’s not the same room anymore, I had the whole place renovated after my old man died and I took it over—but it’s still in the same spot and it’s still in my neighborhood. That’s my world, and it’s strangely not all that different from hers.
It’s stranger still that I like imagining her waiting back home for me.
My leg jostles with impatience and I have to get up to pace. I hate being kept waiting like this, but more than that, I hate not knowing what’s happening in my inner circle. Why did the Panagos attack out of the blue like that? They could’ve negotiated first or demanded payment. Brice was right to wonder what the hell happened. It’s the exact question I’ve been asking myself, over and over, since the shooting. Why the hell would the Panagos jump right to the most violent solution? What the hell were they thinking? And to make it even worse, they did it in the middle of the day, and now there’s heat out for all of us.
Graham Rowe enters the room after ten agonizing minutes. “Carmine, how are you?” He shakes my hand and sends the housekeeper for tea before sitting down on the couch. Across from him, I sit up straight, legs crossed, studying his tired eyes and his rigid demeanor, trying to glean something from the way he’s holding himself and looking at me, but it’s all guesswork at this point.
“I’ve been better,” I say finally. “Brice is back in Philadelphia at my home.”
“That’s good. I bet it’s nice to be back in your city.”
“It’s complicated. But there’s a problem we need to discuss.”
“Oh? Is there?” His eyebrows raise and I swear the bastard deserves an Oscar for this performance like he doesn’t already know everything.
“You heard about the shooting.”
“Shooting?” He leans back in surprise. “I haven’t heard anything about—”
“Do you really expect me to believe that two men get murdered in your back yard, two men in nice suits and driving a very expensive limo, and you don’t hear about it?”
His jaw works but he quickly settles himself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“All right, then I’ll try this again.” I lean forward and stare him in the eye. “Did you pay the Panagos like you were supposed to?”
He looks flustered and my heart flutters in my chest. “Well, of course I did, why wouldn’t I pay them? That would be insane, what are you accusing me of, this is completely absurd, Carmine, even for you, really, I can’t believe—” He hems and haws like that for a few more seconds and I’m even more sure of it now.
The tea comes in. He goes quiet. I don’t stop staring into his eyes. Rage simmers, hot and terrible. This motherfucker is so low, so broken and foolish, that he’d risk everything—everything, especially Brice’s life—just to keep his family’s name pristine and intact. It’s all about their reputation and it repulses me more than I thought it could.
I hated them already, but this?
I loathe this.
“You didn’t pay them,” I say once the housekeeper is gone.
“Carmine—”
“You didn’t pay. You think I can’t call up Stephen Panagos right now and fuckingask? You think I don’t have ways to contact him? You stupid man. What did you do with the money?”
His face is tense for a moment, but finally he seems to relax as he pours some tea. “We have debt to service,” he says primly like I’m too stupid to understand what that means. “Loans come with interest, as you well know. If we’re going to keep this facade up, I needed to cover that interest. Your money bought us a few more months of breathing room.”
“You sold out your granddaughter for a few more months of luxury?” I can hardly believe it, but this shouldn’t come as a surprise. These people are all monsters. They grew up in a world where ruthlessness was rewarded and they were all taught that doing whatever is necessary to preserve the family name is the only thing that matters. They’re mafioso, just like me, except I have the fucking balls and honor to admit it while they walk around and drink champagne and drive their fancy cars and act like they’re the upper crust of society. They make me sick.
“It’s not aboutluxury,” he says through his teeth. “It’s about power and control. The moment we blink is the moment we lose, and Ido not lose.”
I stand, trembling with anger. He looks up at me placidly, convinced that he’s right. This fool can’t imagine a world where he might be wrong. I move around the coffee table, loom over him for a moment, then slam my palm into his face and shove his head back against the couch. He releases a shocked, strangled sound, and he tries to beat me back with his fists but I ignore the blows and grip his face like I’m going to rip it the fuck off of his skull. It feels good, I have to admit it, but I don’t want to kill the old fucker, not yet at least. I still need him.
“Listen to me, you old sack of shit. I’m going to pay the Panagos myself. Consider the money you stole a loan, repayable at five percent interest, and no, don’t make a fucking sound, you worthless scum, that’s much better than you deserve. When I release your face, I’m going to walk out of here, and you’re going to be fucking thankful as I leave, because if I didn’t like your granddaughter, if I didn’t respect Brice, I’d beat you within an inch of your life, and probably kill you by accident, you ancient, decrepit piece of shit. Don’t say a word. I know you understand.” I release him and step back.
He sits there staring at me wild-eyed and bewildered, and I glare at him like the only thing I want in this entire world is to watch him bleed out on this carpet—which is pretty fucking close to the truth—and I wish I could smash one of those teacups down into his face, but the old fuck really might die if I do it. Instead, I make good on my promise, and I walk out of there without murdering him.
The sick fuck. The stupid, sick fuck really didn’t pay the Panagos. I’m trembling with anger and frustration. Why do these bastards insist on putting her in danger, over and over again, like she’s fucking expendable? I hate them for it, hate them for acting like she doesn’t matter when she’s the best among them, the smartest, the strongest, the purest—even if that fucking purity repulses me—and I want her so badly in my arms right now it feels like my world might end if I can’t at least hear her voice. I lean against the limo as I call her, desperate to tell her everything, to tell her that her family thinks she’s worthless, that her family would gladly sacrifice her life if it meant continued comfort for the rest of them, but most of all, that I would gladly burn to the world to ashes if it meant one more afternoon with her in my arms.
She picks up after two rings. “Hey, I didn’t think I’d hear from you today. Everything okay?”
“He didn’t give them the money,” I growl into the receiver.
“Who didn’t? What are you talking about?”