Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out, but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, soft murmurs of words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike and I know that, but the fear still lingers.
A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it travels, it feels less like a tingle and more like a buzzing, but then a heaviness takes over me and it feels so right and perfect that I welcome it. Mike's image slowly fades from my mind, but before it disappears completely, I relive the worst moment of my entire life as Mike's blade pierces Ian's flesh. Blood spills from his small, frightened face, mixing with tears that stream his cheeks. Not my boy. Not Ian.
"No, Mike. No," I whisper to myself, knowing Jim can hear me and he's going to ask questions. I just can't stop myself. This moment still haunts me, despite the passage of time, it doesn't cease to hurt.
"Who the fuck is Mike and what did he do to you?"
When the fog lifts and it's just me and Jim once again, I stiffen in his arms. He's asking questions and demanding answers. Answers I don't want to give, moments I don't want to relive. But I have to. Because Jim doesn't want me and the only way to convince him of that is to tell him the truth about the woman he calls his girl.
"Won't ask again, babe."
"No," I say firmly. Once I tell him, this is all over, and he doesn't get to dictate my pain. "I'll tell you when I'm ready and I'm not ready now. You don't have to like it, but you do have to deal with it."
"Just tell me," he says softly and it breaks down my walls just a bit. "I want to know you. Every broken little part of you."
"Why?" I can't think of a single reason.
"I can't put you back together if I don't know where you're broken."
Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to speak the words I never have before. Not to anyone.
CHAPTER 11
Mike Mancuso
Brooklyn, New York
November 12, 1994
There are some things no mother should ever have to experience, and the loss of her child is right there at the fucking top. If I'm not careful, my self-loathing is going to shine through my carefully crafted demeanor. There's still time to back out, I tell myself. But one look to my right, at my wife, and I know that the only way out of this situation is with a bullet between my ears.
"Roll up the window, Carlo," Esmeralda says. Her voice is tinged with an irritation I almost never hear. I give it a minute before complying, letting the drops of rain hit my forehead and cheeks, bathing me in a kind of clarity I'm sorely lacking. My wife--my dear, sweet, quiet Esmeralda--refuses to use my preferred name. "Mike" isn't a boss's name, in her opinion. "Carlo" commands respect, and I'm the son of the boss, so I better be fucking respected. Not that it matters. If my men knew what I'm about to do, they wouldn't respect me. They might fear me as their capo, and they might do as they're told, but that's not respect. Fear doesn't buy loyalty--only respect does that.
Esmeralda clears her throat, and because I can't handle a disagreement about getting rain on the fucking leather of a car she didn't work to buy and doesn't even drive, I press the button, effectively cutting myself off from the outside world. A world where most people make it through their entire lives without getting blood on their hands. Inside this car, though, the world is a very different place. It's no place for children.
"What are you thinking?" Her voice is back to being soft and careful, as if I'm going to punish her for speaking.
"We could turn around," I say. My voice is even and cool, as if I don't care. It's a lie. I care too much.
"Nonsense, honey. We're going to pick up our babies. You still want them, don't you?"
A disgusted laugh escapes me at the sound of the bullshit flying out of her mouth right now.
"It doesn't matter what I want."
"That's not true. We made a deal. I get Michael and Alexandra for my own in exchange for my acceptance."
Sliding over the seat, I sidle up to the woman I swore to love, honor, and protect, but I feel like doing none of that shit right now. "Acceptance?"
"I accept that, no matter how much I love you, we both know you married the wrong sister."
I turn my body toward her and drag my hand up the tops of her thighs, over her flat, barren stomach, between her breasts, and to her neck. My hand clamps down and squeezes until she gasps for air. My nose skims across her cheek, and I position my mouth near her ear.
"I do this for you, and you learn to keep your mouth shut. You are my wife, my property, not my fucking equal. This is my penance for liking the feel of your sister's pussy more than yours, but don't mistake this gift for anything more than it is. If I had my way, we'd forget your bitch sister exists."
I push her away and ignore her panicked gasping for breath as I slide back to my original position and roll my window down again.