The guy stalked after her.
She picked up her pace, her eyes darting from left to right, finally landing on me.
It was a plea, the look she had on her face.
And while I wanted to turn around and head in the opposite direction, I knew that if I didn’t come back with her it would probably cause more issues than I was ready to deal with.
Plus, I reminded myself that I cared enough not to make her walk five miles.
I pushed off the tree and slowly approached.
The guy chasing her was one of the ones who’d tried to kick my ass only to discover that he wasn’t the only one with training.
Who were those guys?
“They’re the new us,” Nixon had said.
Bosses? Russians? Murderers?
I had no time to process anything before El was launching herself into my arms, her body pressed against mine so hard that I stumbled backward, and then her lips grazed my mouth.
I was too stunned to push her away.
Too confused and immediately hard up to do anything but kiss her back, and when the guy stopped walking, when his face turned from passive to murderous, I gave him the finger behind her back and twirled her in my arms, pressing her up against the tree so hard she let out a yelp.
My hands dove into her hair.
Her mouth met me kiss for kiss, possession for possession.
And I kept track.
Of the favors I gave her while he watched.
She was shaking.
Her frail body weak and cold.
He cursed.
I turned. “Any questions?”
He tilted his head, a cruel smile plastered across his face. “She’s not yours for long… Nicolasi.”
I felt my entire body stiffen.
As far as anyone knew, I was Nixon’s long-lost cousin, an Abandonato.
The name Nicolasi hadn’t been whispered out loud to me in years.
So. Many. Damn. Years.
Even my own sister shied away from it.
She knew I was quick to punch my way through walls.
Because it triggered something deep inside, something that made me want to kill, something dark that scared me, that made me see nothing but rage.
So when I saw his back.
I acted.
Quickly grabbing my knife from the shitty backpack Sergio had given me, I threw it at his Russian ass.
He stumbled forward and collapsed.
I took a few steps toward him as he cried out in pain.
Red blood made a small mark where the knife had entered. I smiled, bent over and shoved it in further, much to the horrified cries around me. “Turn your back on me again, and this—” I pushed further. “—is going to be your fucking throat, got me?”
He winced, cursing in Russian, just as someone started to clap, one, two, three times.
The four guys stood over me as I shoved the knife deeper into their dickhead friend’s back.
“We did not think you had it in you,” one of them said in a practiced American accent. “And here you are, ready to kill — for her.”
“Not for her,” I spat. “For me.”
His eyes lit up. “Even better. I’m Vas.”
I didn’t take his outstretched hand. Instead, I jerked the knife from his friend’s back and stood. “Don’t care.”
“You like a good fight,” he said once I’d taken a step away from him and the guys surrounding him. A crowd started to form. I hung my head as the need to punch something or someone pulsed in my veins. “Ah, I can smell it on you… tell me, do you like… to bleed?”
I closed my eyes.
I’d promised.
I’d promised her never again.
I’d promised no fighting.
I’d promised.
Chicago was a fresh start.
A new start.
But I salivated at the thought…
Of fresh blood on my knuckles, of the sound of flesh tearing open, bone against bone.
“Midnight,” he dropped casually.
Something was thrust into my right hand, the one without the knife.
I stood there.
Swaying in the wind.
Feeling like nothing but a failure.
Because it wasn’t El I was thinking of.
Or my sister.
Or the family I swore to serve.
It wasn’t any of them that I was thinking of.
It was me.
And only me.
And the fact that it had been too long since I’d tasted blood.
When I opened my eyes, I expected fear. I expected El to be horrified, to look away in disgust to try to reprimand me like my sister would.
Instead, she sighed heavily and said, “I’ll cover for you.”
“Why?” My voice was hoarse with emotion that sure as hell didn’t belong in any cell of my body. Emotion got you killed. Emotion had never done me any favors.
“Because.” She licked her lips, a flush spread across her cheeks. “That’s what friends do.”
“We aren’t friends.”
“That’s my condition.” Her chin lifted in defiance. “Friendship for lies.”
“I don’t need your lies or your friendship.”
She was quiet before her hand closed over mine, as she tugged the knife free and wiped it on the inside of her skirt and very carefully closed it and placed it in my backpack on the grass. “That’s where you’re wrong. I think you need both… more than you’ll ever know.”
“I can’t trust you.”
“I never said trust was a condition.”
We stared each other down. I hated looking at her, hated recognizing her beauty. It was why I tried not to focus on her mouth, her eyes; instead I stared at her forehead like it was going to give me answers. The only hint that she was bluffing, that she was trying her best to be strong, was the slight crease in her brow, and the way that, when I did glance at her mouth, she sucked in her bottom lip only to release it when she realized it was a tell.
“You’re afraid,” I finally said.
She hung her head and whispered, “Friendship for lies. What will it be?”
I swung my backpack over my shoulder and pulled the keys for the Mercedes out of my pocket. “Let me think about it.”
We drove in silence the entire way home.
CHAPTER TEN
El
I COULD SMELL the blood on my skirt. It was metallic, burned my nostrils, made me feel dirty. By the time we made it home I was already mentally stripping away all of my clothes, imagining a life where blood wasn’t a normal part of my existence.
Where I didn’t have to be strong.
Where I was allowed to feel something other than fear.
I’d kissed him.
I shouldn’t have.
I’d had no other choice.
I’d had to prove that I belonged to someone — something.
If there was anything the mafia had taught me, it was that when you belonged to blood you were protected by it.
And I’d never been in such dire need of protection in my entire life, even if it meant I was exchanging one monster for another.
“How was school?” Chase smirked at us the minute we waltzed into the house.
I opened my mouth.
Dante slapped a hand over it and shrugged casually. “Homework, when’s dinner?”
“Do I look like your bitch?” Chase’s eyebrows rose.
“No, you just make pasta like one,” Nixon said sweeping into the room, his smug grin firmly in place. “But seriously, Chase, what’s for dinner?”
I didn’t know how to deal with these people.
With their easy teasing.
It was equal parts laughter.
Equal parts violence.
I was always confused.