“Leave them,” he says.
I freeze.
He crouches, picks them up. Folds them like something precious and tucks them in his pocket.
“You keep the shirt,” he says. “I’ll keep these.”
We’re trading pieces of each other like fucking blood oaths.
I step out into the evening air. The light is golden. The neighborhood quiet.
“Goodnight, Dario.”
“Goodnight, Stevie.”
I walk to my car in a daze, his taste still in my mouth.
Get in. Drive away.
And it’s not until I’m on the highway that it fully hits me.
I’m going back Tuesday.
And Thursday.
And definitely Wednesday.
What we did was the mafia equivalent of putting a toothbrush in my mouth and saying, “stay, we’re a thing now.”
Except it’s worse than that.
Because I left a piece of myself in that house. And took a piece of him with me.
And I’m not scared of what that means.
I’m scared of how much I want it.
Chapter Eighteen
ENZO
Sal corners me after the sit-down.
I’m halfway to my car, already thinking about Stevie, wondering if she’s okay, if she’s doing something stupid, when his hand clamps on my shoulder.
Heavy. The kind of grip that’s meant to remind you who’s in charge.
“Walk with me,” he says.
My gut goes cold. But I follow. That’s what you do with Sal. You follow, you listen, you don’t ask questions unless you want to lose teeth.
We walk to the back of the lot. Away from the others. Away from ears.
Sal’s old school. Been in the family since before my father was made, back when things were bloodier and nobody pretended otherwise. He’s got a body count I don’t want to know and a memory that never lets anything go.
He lights a cigarette. Offers me one.
I shake my head. Can’t smoke right now. Can barely breathe.
