Page 160 of Dark Romeo

Was it true? Was he fucking her? Was he the reason I’d been so easy to forget? How dare he. She was mine. For a second, rage blinded me. I strode out of my hiding spot, determined to rip them apart.

Julianna opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car.

He didn’t follow.

I stopped right there at the edge of the sidewalk. He wasn’t going in with her. If Julianna looked over right now, she’d see me.

But she didn’t. She walked into her building, giving Espinoza a tiny wave once she was inside. I backed into my hiding spot again just before Espinoza could spot me. When we both lost sight of her, he pulled away from the building.

She’d be walking into her apartment right now.

My gaze found the skeleton fire escape, a rickety ladder of rust and spider webs scaling up the side of her building, parts missing. Perhaps I could climb up her building one last time...

I could feel the heaviness of death around me. If I could just…touch her one more time. If I could talk to her…

Don’t be stupid, Roman. You came here to make sure she was okay, and she is. The best thing I could do was to leave her alone. She probably wouldn’t even spare a thought for me when she read in the papers tomorrow that Roman Tyrell’s body was found washed up downriver.

I didn’t follow her into her apartment. I slid back into the shadows, walked back to my bike, and prepared myself to meet my fate.

ROMAN

____________

Little Italy had once been a bustling trading spot for the immigrant population of Verona. After my father rose to power, it crumbled into a quivering mess of seedy bars, strip clubs, and illegal gambling dens. Mostly it was abandoned, the forgotten homeless squatting in derelict buildings. The few reputable restaurants still open shut their doors well before nine p.m. With alleyways like twisted warrens and the kind of dark that sucked up the pathetic glow of streetlights, Little Italy was nearly deserted after midnight. It was a notorious spot for things that went on that the gentile population of fair Verona didn’t want to know about. Dead Man’s Alley was right in its rotting center.

A distant clock sounded three times, signaling midnight.

“Where’s your dueling partner?” Dante’s voice rang out, distorted by the hungry wind. His silhouette extended from the shadows from the other side of the alleyway. Two others followed. Shit. Dante had come with two of his men. If he was as ruthless as they say he was, he probably had more backup somewhere else.

Where was Mercutio? He was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago. I pulled out my phone. I’d missed a call from him. I would have been on my bike, riding across Verona when he called, the ringing lost under the roar of the bike’s motor and the wind in my ears. He was probably calling to tell me he wasn’t going to show up. Too late for me to call him back now.

He let me down. He never let me down.

You’ve let him down plenty. It’s no wonder that he decided not to stand by you for this.

As much as I wanted to, I could not hate Mercutio for not showing up. He was right not to come. He was right not to attach himself to a sinking ship. He deserved better than to die along with me. Live, Mercutio. Live a better life as a better man than I ever could.

I gave Dante a casual shrug. “I didn’t think I needed to hide behind my men. Unlike some of us.”

Dante bristled.

Jesus, Roman. Do you ever just keep your mouth shut? Not that it would have mattered. Dante wasn’t the kind of man to let me go if I asked. He’d make me beg, then he’d laugh as he killed me anyway.

He stopped about five meters from me, his men standing by his side like a pair of bodyguards. “Are you ready to join your dead mummy, Tyrell?”

I gritted my teeth and pushed aside my jacket to reveal the gun holstered to my hip. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dante nodded, a sneer lifting his mouth. He opened his arms out to the sides, revealing a single gun holstered to his side. His men helped him shrug off his long trench coat, one of them taking it from him.

We stared at each other across the dim moonlit night, the moon reflecting off the water. I saw my death in his eyes, two deep holes dug into cold dirt. My mind turned back to Julianna’s face. “Don’t do this, Roman,” her image begged me.

Too late. Too late to start again. Too late to say goodbye. Too late to change.

“On the count of three,” one of Dante’s men called, “shoot.”

I shifted my weight, testing my balance. I was a good shot, a good aim. But I had heard things about Dante Veronesi. His father had built his sons their own shooting range when they had been mere children. I had heard that Dante Veronesi could shoot the center out of the king of diamonds from a hundred yards.

“One…”

---