Page 105 of Bitter Poetry
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You want to stop at the flower shop on the way?”
I nod blindly. “Please, just get me out of here.”
I sit in the car feeling more wretched than I have in months.
Dante gives me the words.
Christian gives me the escape.
Maybe Dante is right. One day this will be over. Only, when that day comes, I’m going to have to choose.
CHAPTER 32
CHRISTIAN
Well, Dante’s back and making good headway on fucking everything up.
I take Carmela to her mother’s grave and sit inside the car, fuming. I’m not qualified to deal with this shit. She’s been fucked over too many times. I’m pretty sure neither fucking her nor letting her slap me will bring her around this time.
Her lips are moving as she stands before the grave, talking to her mother. I lost my father two years ago, but I’ve never once found myself talking to him. We all deal with things differently, I suppose. I think about him all the time and the strange gap he left when he went. His passing was different from her mother’s, a heart condition he ignored until it was too late. Death had been sitting on his shoulder for a while, and, when he died, I felt more relief than sorrow.
He wasn’t gunned down in cold blood the way Carmela’s mother was… and the way my uncle was. Then in the same breath, her father was run off the road. Maybe he should have died, too. No one returned to finish the job, so I assume outcomes were achieved with him still alive.
Ettore became the don.
Carmela became his wife.
I’ve never had a problem compartmentalizing life. Knowing someone is a bastard that I could happily end, yet still smile to their face. I worked for Ettore because my father and then Dante told me it was the right thing to do. They were the ones with the big picture.
Carmela is just collateral.
I rub absently at the center of my chest as she pauses her monologue to brush tears from her cheeks. Heavy clouds have settled in and it’s spitting with rain.
She’s only got a light jacket on. She’s going to catch a cold… Can you get a cold from being cold and wet, or is that one of those urban myths?
The rain starts to come down heavier.
I lower the window. “Carmela. Babe, it’s raining. Get in the car, yeah?”
She turns and glares at me, then goes right back to talking to the grave, only now her hands are getting involved and animated.
“Hey! Time out. Get your ass in the car.”
“Fuck off, Christian.”
I get out of the car, irritated as fuck that I left the umbrella in the trunk. By the time I get it, she’ll be soaked. Better to just get her ass in the car.
“Get in the car, Carmela. Now.” I get right up next to her and stab my finger in the direction of the car.
“Fuck you!” She turns and runs.
“For fuck’s sake! Are you insane?” I call after her.
She’s still running… In her sensible two-inch heels. What is that even about? I remember when she used to wear sexy, fuck-me heels.
Why the fuck am I thinking about her shoes?
I rake my fingers through my wet hair. “Fuck it.” I take off after her, but I’m wearing a suit and dress shoes, and the grass is slippery as fuck. “Jesus Christ! What the fuck?”
