head, the bronze skin around his eyes pinched, one strand of his slicked-back hair out of place. Slowly, he smooths it back, and then lets out a sigh.
“This is the last time we’re going to see each other,” he tells me. “My men will find a new class. I can’t allow you to disrespect me any longer.”
Is he kidding? I mean … he must be kidding, right?
But he’s not. He’s as serious as the grave.
Time goes all funny for a second. I guess anger can do that. When I come to, I’m chasing him to the door. I sort of realize this when we’re in the hallway, and my words seem distant.
“Who the hell do you think you are, the pope? Ooh, la-dee-da, Mr. Fancy Pants, ‘how dare you talk to me like that’! Give me a break!”
“Goodbye, Hazel,” he says, striding into the night.
“And good riddance!” I cry, thinking that getting the last word should make me feel like I’m the big winner here.
But it doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
6
Carlo
Nobody talks to me like that.
Nobody disrespects me like that.
I’ve worked too long and too hard building up the Family to allow those kinds of infractions.
The last man who overstepped the mark ended up standing dockside, shivering in his underwear, skin turning fish-pale in the cold, as Maury and Santo filled his boots with cement. He pleaded and pleaded, but the damage was already done.
It’s true that Hazel hasn’t killed anybody and hasn’t put any women’s or children’s lives in danger. It’s true that she doesn’t need to end up a twisted meal for the fish.
But it’s also true that I have no business being here. The men said they wanted to engage in a little lighthearted fist-fighting and I said fine, but the real reason—I have to face it—was to get a chance to glimpse Hazel one more time. I should have told the men no.
I won’t make that mistake again.
I’m done with her.
I curse myself. The last time I was drawn in by a woman, it ended in a firestorm of bullets and explosions, death and pain. I shake my head. How can she have this effect on me?
“All good?” Nario asks, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re rolling out,” I tell him.
“I’ll tell the men.”
I take a whiskey from the pop-up bar, pour myself an inch, consider whether it’ll have the effect I want, then pour in another. I knock back half in one gulp before I close my eyes and see red imprinted on the insides of my eyelids.
But then the red morphs, becoming the tight curves of her athletic body, the tempting rise and fall of her hips. A man could spend hours just stroking that ass, exploring every inch. A man could …
I command my thoughts to quiet down.
I don’t need this.
She’s nothing to me, this stranger.
I have enough women in the harem to keep me drowning in pussy for a lifetime, don’t I? I don’t want another woman, even if tonight I know I’ll dream of her probing green eyes and her sharp tongue.
I have to leave. I have to protect my Family, and I can’t do that by getting all soft-hearted over some meaningless girl.
“If you want to talk,” Nario says, climbing back in, “we can.”
I ignore his offer. “The men ready to depart?”
He nods tightly. “What happened in there?”
“She’s dead. I strung her up. Call a cleanup crew.”
“Carlo …” He shakes his head. “You’d kill yourself before hurting a woman. We both know that. It’s okay if you want to go back in.”
“I didn’t realize you were moonlighting as a therapist, Nario. Maybe we ought to reconsider your position.”
He doesn’t take the bait, just frowns. “How long have I known you?”
“Too long, but that doesn’t mean—”
My words are interrupted by the distinctive crack of an assault rifle, and then the rat-a-tat of a submachine gun.
Suddenly, the conversation is forgotten.
I grab my pistol from my hip. Nario is already reaching under the seat for his rifle. “What the fuck?” he growls.
“The Irish,” I say.
He nods. “Fuckers.”
I look outside, trying to get a gauge on the situation. We’re safe enough in the car with the bulletproof glass and the explosive-proof underside. But Hazel is not safe, standing in the parking lot gaping in shock as her eyes track the movements of what I assume is the Irish’s drive-by car.
Not as a bullet coughs up stone and shrapnel mere feet from where she stands.
There’s a reason movie directors have to work so hard to make sense