“Which part?”
“All of it,” he says. “We went up against the Italians for territory, for reputation, to take over a lot of the business, and it worked. They’re terrified of you, and we’ve made a lot of money off of them. But with the Russians, it’s different... you’re starting a war over a woman, and history tells us that never works out good for any man.”
I turn my head, looking at Seven, seeing a flicker of fear in his eyes, like he thinks I might actually shoot him for his opinion.
I mean, yeah, I might, but I probably won’t.
He’s always been the one to play devil’s advocate with motives and consequences.
Must be the cop side of the man.
“It’s not about the woman,” I say, and I know I’m fucking lying the moment I say it, because it damn sure feels like it’s about her. I can’t shake the sickness in my stomach, the tightness in my chest, knowing wherever she is, he’s probably there. Brave, beautiful Scarlet, she fucking buckles because of that man, and I saw enough of his little home movie to riddle out why that happens.
“It’s principle,” Three chimes in. “We’re not exactly The Avengers here, but sometimes shit has to be done. Sometimes you’ve gotta go after a guy, to make a point, to say ‘this shit isn’t happening on my watch’ because it shouldn’t be happening.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Besides, the guy came into my house today and helped himself to something that doesn’t belong to him. We’re a little past live and let live at this point. I ought to cut his balls off for stepping onto my property.”
Seven says nothing else. I don’t know if he’s convinced, but he knows better than to press too hard after I’ve made up my mind on something.
“You can go,” I tell Three, waving him away. “Tomorrow, I need you and all the guys back here, so we can handle this. Try to get a hold of the girl tonight and see if she can tell you anything.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, nodding before leaving.
“You can go home, too,” I tell Seven. “I’m sure your wife is waiting for you.”
He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself tonight?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Seven leaves, finally, a minute later, saying nothing else. I sit in silence as darkness creeps in, nighttime coming. Picking my gun back up, I run my fingers along the cool metal. The gun feels heavy in my hand, heavier than usual, like the weight of this situation is pressing upon it.
I’ve never really liked guns.
Sure, I use them often. They do the trick, in a pinch, but it’s almost too easy, if you know what I’m saying. You don’t even have to get close to someone to pick them off, if you’ve got a gun. That makes it impersonal, which also makes it boring.
This thing with the Russians... it’s as personal as it gets, which means Aristov won’t get the easiness of a bullet.
Getting up, I stroll out of the living room, clutching the gun like a security blanket. I take the stairs up to the second floor, heading for my bedroom. The bed is unmade, unkempt, comforter bunched up along the end, sheets rumpled, the beat up old bear lying in the center of it. Left behind.
Turning, my gaze catches my reflection above the dresser, blurry in the darkness, before my attention shifts to the remnants of red lipstick on the mirror, not yet wiped off. Didn’t see the point, so I never bothered. I’m sorry. I can make out part of the words, smeared but still there.
It grates my already frazzled nerves.
As anger rushes through me, my blood turning cold, I raise the gun, finger on the trigger.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The mirror fractures, shattering, pieces of the glass flying back at me as bullets rip through it, destroying my reflection and the apology I never asked for, the one I don’t want. I don’t stop until the last bullet pierces the mirror, tearing through the wall behind it, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s nobody else here. The clicking of the gun echoes through the room before I toss the damn thing down on top of the dresser.
Empty.
“Seven years bad luck.”
My brother’s voice filters through the haze of exhaustion that keeps pulling me in and out of consciousness. I’m too tired to sleep, if you can believe that shit. My body aches and my head just keeps throbbing. Every time I doze off, I’m jarred right back to reality. Figures.
“I didn’t raise you to be a superstitious little bitch,” I mutter, my forearm covering my eyes as I lay in the bed, on my back, still fully dressed from yesterday. “There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Pretty Boy. Life isn’t magically delicious. The consequences of breaking a mirror is that your goddamn mirror is now broken.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t just break it,” he says, his voice growing louder, closer, as he comes further into my bedroom. “Looks like you murdered the thing. What did it do, tell you Snow White was prettier than you?”
Moving my arm, I open my eyes and glance over at him. I’m not sure when he got here. I’m not even sure what time it is, but being as the room is bright and I can tell there are people downstairs, moving around my house, I’m going with it being afternoon.
“Why are you even here?” I ask, sitting up, scrubbing my hands over my face before running them through my hair, trying to wake up.
“I live here,” he says, turning to look at me, “in case you’ve forgotten.”
“For now.”
“For now,” he agrees, quiet for a moment before saying, “I’m worried about you, Lorenzo.”
I laugh at that, getting to my feet, swaying. I grasp his shoulder, squeezing, on my way out of the room. “It’s my job to worry about you, not the other way around.”
I walk out before he can argue with me on that, not in the mood for the sentimental bullshit. I appreciate it, the fact that my brother cares, but I don’t have it in me to deal with any of that right now. There’s too much else on my mind.
The guys are all here, but I don’t greet them right away, instead making my way to the kitchen. I grab an orange from a bowl on the counter and start peeling it as I stroll to the living room. The guys are chatting—strategizing, as it is. Where to go, who to hit, what to do, how to do it... why the hell we’re all just sitting here instead of being out there, doing something.
It’s a damn good question.
Leaning against the doorframe, I finish peeling the orange, tossing the scraps at Seven for him to discard. I eat it, still not saying a word, as they continue to bicker back and forth.
Three wants to hit the strip club.
Five wants to blow the guy’s house up.
Seven looks like he wants to mediate, opening his mouth to chime in every few seconds before just closing it again, shaking his head. He knows it’s not his place. The others don’t seem to know what they want to do, but they sure seem ecstatic about the prospect of raising some hell out there, somewhere.