“That.” I gesture at the shirt. At her bare legs underneath it. At all of her standing there in another man’s clothes. “Wearing his shirt. With your Marshal right here. Visible through the window.”
“Saul didn’t notice.”
“Anyone could have noticed!” My voice is too loud. I know it’s too loud. I can’t stop. “Anyone walking by. Anyone watching. You’re wearing evidence, Stevie. Evidence you’ve been doing shit you shouldn’t.”
“It’s just a shirt. Women wear men’s shirt. Buy them. They’re comfy.”
“It’s a trail!” I’m pacing now. Can’t stand still. The fear’s turning into anger because anger’s easier, anger’s what I know. “You want to explain to the family why you’re wearing Dario Marchetti’s clothes? Want to explain what you’ve been doing at his house?”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You were spotted.”
She goes pale.
Good. She should be scared. She should be fucking terrified.
“In town. Three times. Someone saw you. Reported back.” I stop pacing. Face her. “Sal gave me orders tonight. Find you. Find out what you’re doing. And.”
I can’t make my mouth form the words.
Her eyes are wide. She looks small suddenly. Small and soft and nothing like a problem that needs handling.
“How am I supposed to protect you,” I snarl, “if you’re leaving breadcrumbs everywhere you go?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You should have known! You testified against a crime family and you thought you could just waltz back whenever you wanted? Thought nobody would notice?”
“Stop yelling at me!” Her voice cracks. Breaks. “You’re being cruel!”
I’ve been called a lot of things. Violent. Dangerous. A blunt instrument. A weapon.
But cruel, from her, with tears in her eyes, when all I’ve been trying to do is keep her alive.
That one cuts deep.
I stop. Just stop.
Stand there in the middle of her apartment, breathing hard, watching her cry, and I want to put my fist through a wall because I did this. I made her cry. I’m supposed to protect her and instead I’m standing here being exactly what everyone thinks I am.
A monster.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel wrong in my mouth. Unfamiliar. “I didn’t mean… fuck. I don’t know how to do this.”
She wipes her eyes. Doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t know how to be...” I search for words I don’t have. “Soft. I don’t know how to tell you you’re in danger without making it sound like a threat. I just…”
I’m terrified.
That’s what I can’t say. That I’ve been watching her for weeks and somewhere along the way it stopped being a job. That I think about her when I should be thinking about work.
That I can’t imagine a world where someone hurts her and I didn’t stop it.
“Sal wants me to hurt you,” I say quietly.
“You wouldn’t.”
