Page 4 of Alliance

She’s not fine. Her eyes are glassy, there’s a hand clenched to her stomach. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s still in panic mode.

“Here”—I gesture to the wrought-iron table and chairs on the patio behind the funeral home— “sit down.”

Begrudgingly, she listens to me, smoothing the skirt of her black dress and sitting on the patio set. I join her silently, considering my words, unsure what the best thing to say to someone who’s grieving is.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “For your loss.” I cringe at myself.

Her eyes lift back up to study me, running over my features and settling on the charm dangling from my neck. I bring my hand to it instinctually, rubbing my calloused fingers over the round edges. I’ve worn the thing for half of my life at this point, using it as an anchor.

“St. Jude,” I tell her. “The patron saint of lost causes.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to stare.” She averts her gaze from the charm quickly, instead staring at her hands, twisting her fingers together.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve had it a long time.”

She nods, staying silent for a moment before she finally meets my eyes again. “Why Saint Jude? Why lost causes?”

I chuckle, still running my fingers over the smooth edges of the charm. “My grandmother gave it to me.” I shrug. “It sounds bad, I know, but it wasn’t. She prayed that Saint Jude would bring me luck, help me out, ya know?”

“Are you a lost cause?” she asks, the gold flecks of her eyes shining brightly.

“Aren’t we all?”

She smiles at that, the corners of her lips rising as she releases a small chuckle.

“I’m Lana,” she says, extending a manicured hand for me to shake.

“Naz.” I meet her hand with mine, shaking it gently.

She looks better now, different from when I first found her. Her poise has returned, her spine has straightened.

“You keep finding me at my worst moments,” she says with a soft smile.

“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter the words, but I’ve already thought the same thing. Death follows this girl, and I’m always close behind.

“Don’t be. Do you work for my father?”

I cringe at the reminder that I’m just a soldier to her, beneath the ranks of her family. “Your cousin,” I answer, “Marcus.”

“Ah,” she says at the realization. “Is that why you were there that night?”

Even though it was years ago, she doesn’t need to explain what night she’s referring to, we’re both well aware.

“Yes, I came with him.” My chest is tightening at this line of questioning. For one reason, I’m not supposed to talk business with women. For another, I’m not made. I’m barely allowed to know about the business, as I’m still proving myself to these men, and fraternizing with the princess isn’t going to bode well for me.

But what was I supposed to do? Leave her here crying and just walk past her? I couldn’t have done that.

But she’s not crying anymore. I know I should get up and excuse myself, but I can’t. I’m glued to this chair, feet anchored to the ground. I’m addicted to this conversation, to hearing her voice, watching her face. I can’t fucking move.

The Costello family isn’t my favorite. Before Marcus hired me, I was quick to avoid them. Growing up poor, surrounded by other poor Italian-Americans, we all heard the stories about their violence. Carmine settled in New Orleans decades ago with his wife before they had their four kids. He built his organization from the ground up, there wasn’t a soul in NOLA who didn’t know his name.

Including me.

Lana’s heart-shaped face and pouty lips don’t inherently look dangerous. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was just a girl, albeit a beautiful one, but still just a girl. But she’s far more than that. She’s practically royalty with the Costello blood running through her.

“So you know then?” she asks, her pink lips purse at the question and her hazel eyes watch me, waiting for a response.

My stomach clenches at her question. I know exactly what she’s talking about, but I wish I didn’t. If I would have never told Marcus I wanted to be made…maybe, then I wouldn’t be privy to that information. Maybe I would still bejusta drug dealer. One who didn’t have nightmares of girls falling from balconies.

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