Page 102 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

The bruise from Marcel’s gun has popped up on my jaw in the meantime, but there’s nothing to distinguish it from any other wound from last night’s fight. He has no reason to believe that Marcel attacked me first. And if I tell him the truth, tell him what Marcel planned, that ugly truth might make it back to Ava. It would tarnish her pretty little picture of her perfect brother. I hate the bastard, but I don’t want that either.

He was protecting her, and if he makes it, he needs to keep protecting her. Because right now, his odds are probably a hell of a lot better than mine. It’s a weird irony. The man who killed me is laid up in a hospital bed, unable to speak, while I’m here, perfectly fine. And I’m the dead one.

“Marcel was here when I got back from the fight. He was waiting for me.”

“Why?” Salvatore presses, like a boot on my throat. I don’t want to admit to it.

“He wanted to talk about the family and about Ava.” He holds his silence until I finally add, “He wanted me to leave her alone. I said I wasn’t going to do that, that it was her choice. He gotpissed off, shit got out of control, like it always does. I don’t know,” I snap, dancing around the details as best I can. “Shit went south, and he got stabbed.”

“Right. Got stabbed. Not that you stabbed him, he just magically ‘got stabbed.’”

“I stabbed him,” I cut in angrily. “And then I called the fucking ambulance so they could come patch him up and drag him out of here. You and I both know damn well I wasn’t trying to kill him. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to send a message. It’s not my style. We got into a fight, and shit went too far.”

Salvatore glances between us at the bloodied boot prints stamped on the floor.

“You’re right that it isn’t your style. Why did you use a knife?”

“Because it was what I had. He pulled a gun, and we were fighting over it before he could get a shot off. I didn’t like my odds with a knife, much less my bare hands, so when I had the chance, I just...”

Instinct. Life or death.

Hell, that’s not even part of the lie.

I can tell he doesn’t like it, the whole worthless story.

Nothing about it adds up.

Marcel isn’t one for random acts of violence, and I’m not one for acts of mercy. I am the only one who knows that nothing about this was random at all. It was calculated. A risky gamble, sure, but with all the odds weighed out beforehand.

And then for me to stab him—to come out on top when Marcel had both the jump on me and a gun—if Marcel had used even a shred of his typical cunning, I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d already be cold.

“Why does it matter, Sal? You can just ask him.”

“If he lives.”

Salvatore sighs and adjusts his grip on the gun.

“You’re coming into my custody,” he tells me. “Until Marcel wakes up, and I hear the whole truth.”

“Why?”

I don’t get it. Why have mercy? Why care about the truth when once I’m gone, they can rewrite it however they like? Marcel hand-wrapped Salvatore’s reason for him. He handed my life over to him in giftwrap and bows.

“Because my wife asked me to. If you didn’t fight, and you didn’t run, she asked that I bring you back. She wants to be present for your sentencing.”

I thought these plain four walls would be the last thing I saw. I’d made peace with that. Salvatore moves to try to get me to my feet, but I stay rooted, staring at the floor between us. My pulse ticks up, running high suddenly. I dig in my feet.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not without your word first.”

Salvatore scoffs when I keep trying to make deals, probably assuming I’m dancing through hoops and trying to save my own neck. “And what word is that?” he asks dryly.

“That if this takes more than a day, you come down there and you finish this yourself. If you can’t promise me that, then just shoot me right here, Sal, and save us all the bullshit. I’m not spending another night behind bars. I won’t do that.”

He thinks about it, but he finally nods.

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