Page 21 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
“Tor,” Cal says. “A blood wedding is?—”
“Done fast and that’s what we need. Contact the church to set it up. We have enough witnesses. As soon as possible is the name of the game.” I did some research on it. And it holds more clout than a government-sanctionedwedding in old-world mafia eyes.
It’s the one chance I have to redeem myself for the horrors I caused those people.
I thought I’d get some of it when I saved her from Bernardo, but then I put her in a worse position by making her vulnerable to those fucking vipers.
“What’s this about, really?” Cal asks softly when Anthony moves away so only I can hear.
Cal knows a lot, knows that when Shiv died it had to do with a mess of a job involving the Federicis. But he doesn’t know what I was paid to do and by whom. He doesn’t know why I was there.
But I half shrug. “Later.”
The minutes are ticking past and I don’t trust the Ricci family to let her roam for too much longer without taking action.
Her uncle starts to speak when I make the decision to go after her.
Outside, the cold wind slaps me across the face. My eyes dart up and down the street, and I try to figure out which direction to go. Harry’s smart, and there are plenty of places where she could hide.
But she’s not on the run. Not really. She’s not about to disappear under a new alias or start over, not with her commitments to her church work. She’d never leave the city. She’s too stubborn and headstrong. And she’s survived a hell of a lot worse.
No, all she said was she’d take her chances with Ricci over me.
Not the words of a woman about to go into hiding.
The Prospect Park subway is nearby. I head to the station, figuring she’d take the train back into Manhattan. Cal shouts my name but I don’t turn around. I merely lift a hand to wavehim off and I know it’s going to make him really angry, but I have a job to do.
Up ahead, I can see her and the blue coat she’s got on. The bright color is like a beacon for me to follow, and I make no attempt to hide.
Let her see me.
She doesn’t look back, but I bet she knows I’m there, hawking her. It’s in her stilted, not-quite-a-run walk. She moves just fast enough to keep me on my toes.
I check the RealTimes app for the Q train.
Harriet crosses at the intersection. That’s when she looks back. Our eyes meet, her pale eyes searing into me, a complex mix of hate and desire and accusation that I feel everywhere. She stumbles over a sidewalk crack and her wind-kissed cheeks deepen in color.
As she takes off again, not changing her stride, I wonder… How much of that mousy exterior is hiding a lion?
Under the layers of Hazel and Harriet, the woman beneath is pure ten-year-old spitfire Harry.
At the steps of the subway, she looks back at me and rushes down the stairs.
I follow her down to the platform and pick her out of the small crowd gathered.
This time panic flares in her expression, breaking through the stony facade. I could smile. I could do a lot of things.
I just wait for the train to pull up.
When it does, she can’t stop looking at me. She’s probably deciding whether to run at the last minute and wait for the next train, or to get on and hopefully lose me in the cars.
The doors open and she pushes through the people getting off. She’s in the car right in front of the one I’m about to board. I get on but I don’t go after her.
Not yet.
The truth is, as we take off for Manhattan, she could get off at any stop, she could go anywhere in the city. But it must occur to her that she needs to go home. And then there’s the church.
Where she gets off doesn’t matter. So I patiently wait, watching for her to make a move. Once we hit Canal Street, I see her dash off the train, her coat slung over her arm.
