Page 342 of Vicious Saint
Tick. Tock.
I’ve been sitting on my bed in the same position for over a half hour, hugging my knees to my chest, eyes burning as I partake in the world’s longest staring contest with a shoe sized gift box.
Agorgeousshoe sized gift box, to add. Silver, wrapped intricately with a white bow, similar to the ones you’ll find on Macy ads during Christmas time. Shit, I can almost seethe chick in a Santa hat gasping, along with the cutesy festive boyfriend handing the present over to her.
Tingly. Fucking. Adorable for sentimental bitches.
The only problem about this one is it wasn’t gifted to me by some dorky guy in a Santa hat.
It was gifted to me by Dante Salvini.
Head of the most notorious, dangerous, crime family on our side of the country.
Who I’ve spent months in secret uselessly digging into.
Being guarded by one of his men.
Being lied to by my family about why.
The answers I’ve been looking for should have me tearing open this box, hoping to finally get some, but now that I may come face to face with them…I’m no longer sure I’m ready.
I meant what I said earlier about Carlo’s death, and how it emptied a huge space in my heart. But what I didn’t realize is what it added—a ton of regret for being so damn stubborn.
Refusing to listen when he tried to do his job protecting me.
Not backing down from my need to get into adult business.
Maybe if I did, Carlo would still be alive.
After all, it was he who insisted going to the store was dangerous.
And it was me who guilted him into it anyway.
Therefore Carlo’s murder, although a custom to his lifestyle, is partly my fault. Another facet, like the struggles Saint tried to hide, I’ve been too lost in my grief to realize.
Reaching for Carlo’s gold horn, I squeeze it to help muffle the sob ripping past my throat, because the last thing I need right now is an audience to my shame. Saint may have agreed to give me space, yeah, but no doubt the extent of it lies behind the bedroom door.
As for the others, well, given they didn’t dare to say a peep when I stormed into the elevator, tells me they must be heeding Matteo’s warning pretty well.
I stare at the door, waiting to make sure no Saint sized quarterback bursts through it. Then, when I’m met with nothing but silence, I proceed to take some time thinking and breathing through cries.
Am I ready to see what gift Carlo’s boss felt the need to give me?
Maybe not.
Was Carlo ready to die protecting me?
Yes. He was. He made it known on several occasions.
But the idea of being loyal to a person and actually dying for them are two very different things. Therefore I owe it to Carlo to man up and face whatever’s inside this stupid box.
Wiping the moisture from my cheek, I mutter, “Fuck it” and snatch the box off my bed, allowing myself no more than three seconds before tearing off the bow.
I toss the ribbon, listening to the pounding in my chest as my fingers clasp the side of the lid. Then, with my eyes squeezed closed I rip it off. And wait. And wait some more before opening them again.
What I find has a harsh gasp expelling from my lips.
A small, simple handwritten note, resting on top of the absolute last thing I ever would’ve imagined seeing again.
