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While my home, my life, was built on piles of dirty money, I’d always been able to say I hadn’t contributed to the balance. Not until earlier this year, that is. Now, blood was on my hands and guilt watched me while I slept.
“Yours?” I asked smoothly. “Bummer.” A tug on my ponytail. “Watch it.” His words were low and distracted. Warmth spilled into my chest, like I’d just gotten away with playing with fire. I wanted to do it again. Was this how people became addicts? “There are seven other televisions in this house, Russo.” Another tug on my ponytail, but this time he pulled it all the way back so I was looking at him upside down. His eyes narrowed. “I’m beginning to wonder if this Sweet Abelli even exists.”
“Nicolas, go find someone else to boss around—” I froze, my heartbeats slowing like they’d been dropped in molasses. He held me by the ponytail and kept me from taking another step, like it was a leash. My breath stopped when his front pressed against my back. He felt so warm, so good, I could have groaned if I had the air to do so. With a small tug on my ponytail, my head tilted to the side and his lips brushed the hollow behind my ear. “Tell me what to fucking do again.”
You can only sink or swim. You can’t swim in the underworld, but I’d always heard drowning was the best way to go.
“Of course we know that,” Mamma said a little too quickly. “But maybe you’re not as emotionally . . . stable.” She closed her mouth like she realized that was worse than saying I wasn’t as assertive. “Keep digging yourself into a hole, Celia,” Nonna muttered, taking a sip of coffee. “You’ll be to China in no time.”
“We are all born mad. Some remain so.” —Samuel Beckett
I would make this girl want me, need me, love me, because fuck if I was going it alone.
“You make me fucking crazy.” “Don’t blame me for your psychosis.” “You are my psychosis.”
Reaching toward the other side of the bed and feeling nothing but sheets, something jack-knifed in my chest. The clanking of pots and pans from the kitchen sent an instant rush of relief through me. I ran a hand down my face. Jesus. I’d wanted a wife and I got a damn heart-attack waiting to happen.
I’d thought she was difficult to read before, but that might be because I found it hard to focus on her face. Now, I could see her thoughts leak into her soft brown eyes and hear them in her voice. She had a long way to go to be a Russo, but hell, I’d walk with her the whole way.
