hurt people when it’s necessary. I have killed people—”
“How many?” I ask, throat dry. I’m not even sure I want to know this. But that doesn’t matter. I have to.
“More than I can remember,” Carlo murmurs.
“Jesus. Were they all—”
“They were all a threat to the Family,” he says. “You can decide for yourself if that is good enough grounds for murder.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel guilty?”
He smiles strangely, glancing back at Ubert, who is standing a respectful distance away. He looks more deeply at me. I notice that little scar under his eye again. “If one of my men asked me that question, I would say no, of course not. Maybe I’d even lie to Nario. But yes, Hazel, it does make me feel guilty. Even when the men deserve it, even when they’re rapists and killers and monsters, even when they sell drugs to kids, it’s never easy taking the life of another man. Father told me that conscience is what separates us from the animals. A man can’t lead without conscience.”
I reach out and touch his face. I feel the weight of Carlo, the weight of us, pressing down on me. I just can’t get over how badly I still want him despite what he just told me. It doesn’t make any sense.
My hand strays to the scar. “How did you get this?” I ask quietly.
He grins. “Angel,” he says. “When he was a toddler, I was playing airplane with him and he hit me with his toy truck. It was a good right hand, too. I needed stitches.”
How can this grinning man be the same Carlo who just admitted to killing countless men? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? It’s getting harder—let’s be honest, impossible—to keep reminding myself that he’s a criminal, like it matters. He’s just Carlo.
We turn to the weeds silently, working for over an hour without exchanging another word. When we’re done, Carlo stands up, brushing his hands on his shorts. He seems more sober now. I wonder if he was even drunk or tipsy to begin with, or if we both just used that as an excuse to brush over what he said.
“Come with me,” he says, offering me his hand. “I want to show you something.”
I grab onto him tightly. He lifts me to my feet. I stumble—okay, maybe I stumble on purpose. He catches me and both of us laugh, fumbling as we try and kiss each other. I end up sort of smearing his cheek. His lips drag along my chin. Finally, we find each other’s lips and sink into it. I taste him. He makes a groaning noise and I trace the bulging muscles in his back, feeling his bare skin through the slightly damp fabric of the vest.
He smooths his palm down my arm until he finds my hand. I want to tackle him to the ground. I don’t care if Ubert is here. I don’t even care if Emily can probably see from the attic with her telescope. I want him, bad. But he’s got this serious look in his eyes, like what he wants to show me is important.
“What are we waiting for?” I ask, giving his hand a squeeze.
He leads me to the rear of the garden, under the archway, down the winding path to the pond. Memories of our last meeting here sizzle over me.
“Angel used to come here,” Carlo says.
“The pond?”
He shakes his head and wordlessly leads me around the pond to a wooden shack in the back. I didn’t see it before because the tree it sits under is overgrown, the branches hanging low. Carlo pushes them aside and gestures inside.
“It used to be a tree house,” he says. “But I had it taken down so it wouldn’t fall. Look, in the tree, you can still see where the ladder used to be. Do you see the nails?”
I’ve never seen that smile on his face before. It’s lost in the past.
“I see,” I assure him.
“He was a quiet kid. Introspective. He wasn’t built for this life. He had more in common with Emily than with me or Father. But he was—he would’ve been a writer, too, I think. He was smart. He did well in school. He didn’t like blood. I miss him.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I miss the little bastard so much.”
I press my body against Carlo’s, not knowing what to say. I sense I don’t need to say anything. It’s enough for us to