Chapter Three
Macaroni noodles stick to the pan and I curse the broken dishwasher. Hand washing dishes is the worst, and I never feel like I get them clean enough.
Screwing up my face, I grab a sponge and begrudgingly knock the macaroni off, scrubbing the mushy noodle residue it leaves behind.
It’s been a long, long day.
After I left school I had to pick up my siblings and watch them all night while my mom worked. She went to her boyfriend’s house after, so I ended up putting them both to bed. It’s not an irregular occurrence, since my mom works late hours a lot, but I’m so exhausted that just dragging myself across the room feels like a workout—making them eat and do homework while not fighting was too much to ask.
I have to get some sleep tonight.
Part of me wonders if I should just approach Vince and be done with it. If I could do it at school, I would feel safer. I’m not sure how much more of the cat and mouse games my nerves can take, and at the end of the day, I could actually be endangering my family.
Unease tickles down my spine at that grim realization. If Vince and that other guy did kill my neighbors, what would stop them from doing the same thing to us? They could be planning to burn our house down as I stand here scrubbing dishes.
I drop the sponge into the sink basin, bracing my weight on the edge as my shoulders sag, my head falling forward.
I have to stop thinking about this. I’m driving myself crazy, and there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
I barely register the movement behind me and I’m pushed forward, my hip slamming painfully against the counter. Someone shoves against my back, one arm neatly trapping both of mine against my body, the other clapping a hand over my mouth to stop me from crying out.
A knowing kind of terror drenches my bones and I can’t move, can’t think—for almost a full second, everything stops.
Then I start bucking, rearing back in an attempt at head-butting my assailant.
My head connects with nothing, but taking advantage of my movement, he swiftly repositions the hand trapping my arms, locking it around my neck and pulling me back into a painful position.
My hands fly to his arms, digging my fingers into his skin as I instinctively attempt to pry them away from my throat. It only serves to tighten his grip, so I stop fighting, terrified he’s going to snap my neck and focus on getting myself under control. I force myself to quiet down, in a show of cooperation. I need to see who’s in my home to see if I have a chance. If it’s Vince, I might make it out alive. If it’s some flunky and Vince isn’t there, I’m probably already dead.
I count six seconds before he finally speaks. “Are you done?”
My eyes nearly roll back in relief. It’s Vince’s voice. I attempt something like a nod and the pressure around my neck eases up, disappearing completely as he lets me go. He remains close instead of taking a step back, and for a wild second, I try to remember if there are any knives in the sink—just in case.
What are you thinking? No, that’s a bad idea. I can’t stab a Morelli. Then I really would be dead meat.
Diplomacy is the only way to go.
“Don’t scream,” he says calmly.
I shake my head, my hand automatically going to my neck. “I won’t.”
His gaze follows my hand as it brushes across my throat.
I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I need to calm my ass down.
Only that’s hard to do, with a son of the mob breaking into my house while I wash dishes.
My heart floods with ice water as I consider my brother and sister asleep down the hall. They could’ve heard the scuffle. They could hear…whatever is about to happen next.
“When does your mother get home?” Vince asks, like he’s paying a social call.
“Soon.”
What, he expected me to tell him he had the house to himself for a while?
Cocking his head to the side, he regards me with a seemingly solemn expression. “Let’s not start off with lies, huh?”
My face flushes, despite the ridiculousness of him expecting literally anything from me. “I’m not—I don’t know when she’ll be home. She’s off work already, but she went to her boyfriend’s house after. She really could be home any time. And she doesn’t know anything,” I add quickly.
Eyebrows rising, he says, “Well, at least we don’t have to pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”
I hug myself, running my hands up and down my arms. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even see anything, really.”
“That so?” he asks, reaching into his pocket and extracting a thin, rectangular object.
My stomach rolls over as he offers up my cell phone.
“You can have it back,” he states, regarding my discomfort with amusement. “Obviously I had to delete the video you took—you know, of that thing you didn’t really see.”
I don’t even reach for my phone, and I definitely can’t meet his gaze. “All I saw was you walking out of a house.”
“That seems like a boring thing to record. Those cute little videos of your siblings, those seem worthwhile…” Pausing, he jerks a thumb in the direction of the hall and pulls a frown. “I imagine they’re sleeping right in there, huh?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but words fail me. The unspoken threat lingers, just because of who he is. “You don’t have to make veiled threats. I’m not going to say anything. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even call in the fire. I didn’t want to get involved,” I say quietly, my eyes dropping to the floor.
Vince soaks that in, then leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Why were you out there in the first place?”
The truth feels too embarrassing, but I don’t have a lie prepared and I’m no good at coming up with them on the fly. “I was making a phone call.”
Lifting a disbelieving eyebrow, he questions, “In your backyard?”
“We have thin walls. I didn’t want anyone to hear the call. It was stupid.”
“Ah.” A knowing nod. “Boyfriend? It’s not that tool bag, Bradford, is it?”
My face burns.
Vince utters a noise of disgust. “Guy’s an idiot. You could do better.”
Before I can think better of it, I retort, “Yeah, well, there just aren’t enough mobbed up arsonists to go around.”
His brown eyes narrow and he pushes off the counter, taking a step toward me.
I automatically step back, my eyes not moving from his. I am floored by my own idiocy. That was such a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say, but I force a wavering smile. “What, you can’t take a joke?”
“It’s an odd joke, considering you didn’t see anything,” he reminds me.
Bile threatens to rise up my throat and I curse myself a hundred times. I’m talking to someone who has committed criminal acts, not bantering with a hot guy at school. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I didn’t.” My voice sounds weak as he continues to advance on me, taking two steps forward to my one step back and eventually his arm shoots out, grabbing me by the wrist. I squeak, literally squeak, and then his hands are on my shoulders, swinging and pushing until the counter’s pressed against my back. It’s suddenly harder to draw air into my lungs. Vince stands so close I can feel the body heat roll off his chest.
Even though it couldn’t possibly do any good, I implement my four-year-old sister’s favorite hiding technique and close my eyes.
“See,” Vince says, his voice still low and even, “when you say a thing like that, it makes it seem like you’re lying to me.”
“It was a stupid thing to say. It slipped out.”
“Exactly.” His fingers brush my chin and I jump, my eyes popping open and quickly meeting his. “If something like that happened to slip out again, say in front of someone else—”
“It wouldn’t,” I insist. His fingers are still trailing along the curve of my neck. I catch a shaky breath, distracted by the weirdly pleasant sensation. His hands continue their journey and before I realize what he’s doing, his hands, positioned around my neck, begin to squeeze.
I gasp, my wide eyes jumping to his in horror. My hands fly to his wrists as his fingers tighten uncomfortably, but not painfully. My throat feels strangely fragile beneath just the strength of his fingers.
“My father, like most of the men in my family, uses fear to motivate people to do his bidding. Violence. Threats. Personally, it doesn’t do much for me to terrify a woman. Not usually,” he amends, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. “I have to admit, I haven’t hated you watching over your shoulder for me since that night. Could be I’m a sick fuck just like the rest of them. Latent gene, maybe. But I’m also your fucking angel of mercy right now. If you watched any other member of my family walk out of that house the other night, you’d be dead already.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the burn of tears threatening to seep out.
“But it was me. And I don’t want to hurt you, but my ass comes before yours,” he states, one eyebrow shooting up even as his eyes drop pointedly to where my ass is pressed against the counter, “no matter how nice that ass is.”
Before I can attempt a response, the sound of someone trying to twist the door knob open startles us both.
Vince drops his hands, his gaze jerking to the door.
Turning back to me, eyes full of threats, he says, “Your room.”
I grab his wrist, running down the hall as my mom pushes her key into the lock.
We make it inside, but sometimes Mom comes to my room to check in. My room’s tiny, barely enough space to get around the full-sized bed, and my closet is minuscule—and shared, since the room my siblings share doesn’t have one.
“Will she come in here?” he asks, his gaze lingering on the door.
“She might,” I whisper back. “I guess…the floor on that side.” I point to the other side of my bed.
Shooting me a dark look, he says, “If you try to signal her or say a goddamn word, Mia…”
“I wouldn’t.” Mainly because that wouldn’t reassure the nice gangster that I wouldn’t rat him out, but I don’t add that.
Keeping the light off, I climb into bed, yanking my covers up over me. I watch, transfixed, as Vince Morelli lowers himself to the floor, like a real-life monster beneath my bed.