Page 61 of Petrichor

“What the fuck are you talking about, you dickhead?”

“Fucking hell! I was trying to find a wording that you’d understand when talking about sexuality.”

“And you chose garlic and onions?” This is ridiculous.

“How does Fly stand you?”

I’m this close to smashing my glass on his head.

“As I was trying to say, sexuality is a spectrum, a wide array, really. It's not as black and white as you’d think.”

“How about him being forced to tell on us, what should I think about that? Should Iaskhim? Like we did with Denny?”

“There’s no proof yet. Plus, Seb said to keep treating him as you’ve been doing so far.” He gives me a knowing look before turning around to look at the people around the bar.

Why is Seb being so lenient with Fly? Is it because of me? Or is he following one of his schemes?

“I should keepusinghim, then.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Is he reading my thoughts now?

It started like that—with that damn blowjob, right here in this bar. But it did change at some point. I don’t know when precisely. It happened slowly and steadily. All the emotions I suppressed thus far are now flailing within me. The anger boiling inside is the strongest one at the moment. But there’s something else, further down, almost reaching the depth of my soul, something dim and ephemeral I can’t quite grasp.

He just gives me butterflies, the most beautiful ones.

Ah, fuck! I down another glass. Why can’t I get drunk tonight? And why hasn’t the urge to go to him and pound him on whatever surface I reach first gone away, but has worsened since I started having these doubts?

“Do you want me to take care of him?” Luca’s detached tone makes me pause. He likes Fly, but he’d dispose of his body in a heartbeat if I asked him.

Fly’s beaten body appears in front of my eyes, and I grit my teeth against the protectiveness that overtakes me. I’m already halfway underwater, will I drown in the end?

“No!” I snarl, this insane compulsion to have Fly near me even though he could be a snake is unsettling. Unacceptable. “I… What if it’s true, Luca?” Could I end Fly’s life? I didn’t care that much about Delia, and I still hesitated before taking her life, getting thirty stitches for my mistake.

He squeezes my shoulder hard. “Let’s blow off some steam.” Luca points at the group of men from the Russian mob drinking at a table.

Thank fucking God. I need to shut my brain off for a while. I leave the stool, eyes laser focused on them as I slip my hand in my right pocket and put on my gold knuckles. I kiss the engraved cross and grunt. “Let’s go.”

The anticipation I hear in his chuckle reflects mine. He needs this just as much as I do with the fucked-up Mario Enzino situation.

“After you, brother.”

Don’t mind if I do.

As soon as I cross the threshold, Fly is on me. “Are you okay?” His shaky hands hover over my chest like he’s afraid of hurting me, while his worried eyes are frantically darting all over my body. “Luca said you got shot.” He gasps low as he sees the blood on my sleeve.

He bites his fisted hand and closes his eyes. Just when I think he is going to cry, he lets out a cute growl instead. “They ruined your suit. I hope you make them pay!”

My gruff chuckle seems to surprise him, but I can’t hold it in—he knows me well by now. An immense wave of sadness attempts to submerge me, but I shut it out. I’m good at caging in my feelings. Been doing it for so long, I’m a pro now.

Those beautiful iridescent eyes looking angry on my behalf, how could I not fall for them? There’s some redness around them. Did he cry?

“I was so worried,” he whispers.

Seeing Fly fretting over me feels fucking good. The family took care of me since the day Don Massimo brought me home with him, but the people surrounding me were not sympathetic, nor affectionate. I learned soon enough to be tough, wary, remorseless, unforgiving.

“Let me check the wound.”

I place the cardboard box on the coffee table to let him pull at my jacket and then take off my shoulder holster. He starts unbuttoning my shirt. I like him assisting me like this. The light brush of his fingers, the shiny crown of his head bowing down, the focused expression on his face, and his fresh scent—that I now know comes from him strolling outside and using those candles he likes.

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