Page 15 of A Game So Reckless

“But you didn’t find any Russians on that roof tonight. Did you?”

There’s no verbal answer, so I can only imagine quiet Curse is shaking his head.

“And Valentina would have no reason to lie if it were a Russian,” Elio continues. “Hell, if it were the bratva, they’d probably just have thrown her off too. That, or put some poison in her drink. But just because a Russian didn’t kill Dario tonight doesn’t mean he hasn’t pissed one of them off.”

“Merda,” Papà swears viciously. “Pissing off the Russians. Maybe the motherfucker really did jump.”

“And maybe it’s damn good luck that Valentina isn’t marrying him after all.”

“Don’t you fucking start with me,” Papà growls. “Not after you nearly got all of us blown up over that Irish girl.”

When Elio replies, his voice rasps with possessive rage.

“You mean mywife.”

Even through the door, I can feel the strain in the air. After a tense moment, the conversation moves on and voices get quieter. I’ve heard all I can for now. Holding my shoes tightly in my sweaty hands, I tiptoe away, not putting my bare heels all the way down until I reach the stairs Mamma went up earlier. The cool marble is solid and soothing beneath the soles of my feet as I ascend. It’s a stark contrast to the heat trapped against my body by the tight shape of my dress.

As soon as I’m inside my room, I rip it off, tossing it into a mangled black heap as I head for the bathroom adjoining my bedroom. I shower, but I do it quickly, because every time I close my eyes under the hot spray of water, images I want to escape come rising up.

Strangely, they aren’t images of Dario’s death.

They’re the images of the man who killed him.

Blue jeans. Broad shoulders. White shirt under August sun. Tattoos. Dark red hair and those eerily uneven eyes. Darragh, appearing like a demon in the elevator doorway. Darragh, advancing with those relentless, long-legged strides.

Darragh, standing right in front of me. Leaning down towards me.

You can’t possibly think that I would save you.

But he did save me.

You want me to kiss you?

I jolt. My eyes fly open. Shampoo runs into them, burning.

He didn’t say that.

Did he?

I don’t remember. Everything’s a mess inside my head, smeared by lack of oxygen.

I rub furiously at my stinging eyes. I’m normally someone who enjoys a good primping session – shampoo, then shampoo again, conditioner, body wash, exfoliant, body oil, hair masks, all that jazz. But I don’t have the energy for it right now. I slap conditioner on the lengths of my hair, wash my body, rinse, then leave the shower.

My clean face in the foggy mirror looks about ten years younger than the woman who walked out the door with her black dress and red lipstick. Thinking of the lipstick makes me remember that I don’t have it – I don’t have my clutch purse at all. I left it on the bar on the roof. Damnit.

I guess I’ll be getting a new phone, then. Or maybe, once the police examine it for evidence, it will get returned to me.

Pulling on a fluffy pink robe, I leave the bathroom and return to my bedroom, only to hear a knock on the door.

It’s not a meek knock, but it is quiet. It’s not as forceful as Papà’s or Elio’s would be. And Mamma wouldn’t even bother knocking.

“Curse?”

I open the door to see that I’m right. It’s the younger of my two cousins. He’s still ten years older than I am, though.

He raises his hand, and in it is my purse. His big palm and long fingers make it look so much smaller than it does in my hands.

“Oh, shit. Thanks, Curse,” I say. My voice sounds horrible. Cracking and raspy.

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