Page 15 of Confession
Pedano spins to face me, staggering slightly because he’s drunk. I’m sure he’s had a bad day dealing with Alesso. Light from the wharf paints his slack face orange.
“You,” he slurs, grabbing for his gun.
I crack the crowbar across his elbow. He screams, which means I have to work fast. I hook his neck with the crowbar, yanking him into the shadow of the building. I punch my knife into his gut. I yank it out and punch it in again and again. His cries fade. He collapses.
He’s still alive as I roll him over to grab his wallet from his back pocket. I open it and steal the cash to make this look like a robbery. Alesso will know the truth, but he won’t be able to prove it.
“You’ll go down,” Leo wastes his last breath telling me.
I already know that. I’ve known that since I was fifteen years old. But the irony is that it’s not the past that’s going to destroy me. It’s that one brief moment when, for some fucking reason, I seemed to think that I could have something that, obviously, I can never, ever have.
SEVEN
Vitali
“So what happened last night with you and Quinn?”
I look up from my phone, glancing at Sasha in the driver’s seat. The city lights flood in through the windshield, illuminating the lower half of her face.
“Nothing.”
“Hm,” she hums in reply, telling me that she doesn’t believe me. That’s fine as long as she understands that we’re not going to discuss it.
If I was ready to discuss it, I’d be discussing it with Quinn. But I’m not ready to talk to him yet or even see him because I’m confused as fuck.
He was trying to get me out of his space long before he shoved me. I’ll admit I’m not the most respectful about that, especially with him, especially lately. I’ve been invading his space because I’ve been trying to figure out why I want to be there in the first place.
If nothing else, I did figure that out last night. Turns out, Iamattracted to him.
What’s less clear is whether he’s attracted to me. I’m pretty fucking sure he almost kissed me. But instead of actually kissing me, or giving me half a goddamn second to get my brain working while my dick hardened for a man for first time in my life, he shoved me like he fucking hated me.
What am I supposed to make of that?
Then he avoided me all goddamn day.
To be fair, I avoided him too. I’m confused and pissed off and really don’t know what to do with myself.
I’m almost tempted to talk to Sasha. I think that’s what she’s offering, for me to talk to her. She knows Quinn pretty well—as well as anyone does considering how closed off he is—so she might have some insight, but my head is way too fucked up to talk about any of it.
That’s probably why, when we get to Eclipse, I decide to play bartender again tonight. I’m getting way behind on the books, but I don’t think I can sit at my computer right now. Besides, I kind of like bartending. It’s easy but busy.
Maybe that’s why Quinn likes cooking. God knows he can’t handle actually relaxing, but cooking is a busy, low intensity activity. I don’t think he likes bartending though, even though he’s good at it. He’s such an introvert.
I, however, am not, and my mind relaxes a little as I make drinks, a few of them for myself. Maybe it’s more than a few, given the way Sasha keeps checking on me. Definitely more than a few because by midnight I’m half drunk and really wishing Quinn was here.
I feel suddenly quite sober, however, when Gavino DiMaggio, dressed in a black suit with a dark red shirt, looking every inch the Italian mobster, cuts through the crowd. I send Sasha a quick text.
I’m sure he has at least one bodyguard here somewhere, but he approaches the bar alone. He goes for the narrow side.
He’s not exactly handsome with that strong Roman nose and narrow face, but he is distinguished looking. His side-parted silver hair is thick and glossy. He puts his hands on the bar, fingers interlacing to show that he’s here peacefully.
“What do you want, DiMaggio?”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t like my brusque tone. He wants to play the mobster game, go through the motions of artificial cordiality. I don’t give a fuck.
“What Alesso did wasn’t authorized,” he tells me.
I toss down a cocktail napkin. “I meant to drink.”
