Page 69 of The Villain
I reach over and close my hand over one of hers. She looks at it, then at me.
“Maybe I feel guilty, Allegra.” She looks confused. “I shouldn’t have left you in the crypt. You were scared. I am sorry about that.”
Her eyes search mine, uncertain, and she pulls her hand out from under mine, but she doesn’t argue so I take that as a win.
We fall silent, the stretch of road long. The second SUV comes into view, but it’s only us on this cloudy November morning. Allegra is silent, her mood sad.
“We used to come here when we were little,” I tell her, wanting to give her something. My own way of groveling, I suppose which is very much unlike me. “My father would bring my brother and I.” I slow, taking a hairpin turn. “Sometimes that life feels like it belongedto someone else,” I say, not sure why I say it out loud, even though it’s true. I feel her eyes on me, the weight of that silence expanding.
“Everything changes so fast. I miss my mom. A lot,” she says.
A glance shows me how her eyes glisten, but I note what she said. She misses her mom, not her dad. “I miss my family too.”
She looks at me confused. I clear my throat. “Here we are,” I say, turning onto the dead-end street where the frozen custard shop that hasn’t changed since I was little stands with its red and white checkered awning. The two windows, one to order and the other to pick up, look out at us like eyes.
“Oh, it’s closed,” she says, disappointment evident in her voice.
“Nah.” I park the car, honk twice and climb out. She opens her door as I come around to her side. I can smell the salty sea air in the brisk wind. I breathe deeply, filling up my lungs. Life seems easier here in this tiny, simple place.
I extend a hand to help her out. She looks at it, then up at me.
“I don’t bite.”
“Well, I mean, you do bite,” she says and slaps her hand over her mouth. Clearly that slip was unintentional.
My laugh is unexpected even to me, but I’m loving how she blushes. How pretty she is right now, looking at me like she is. A little shy. A little embarrassed. A lot honest. And sweet. Like no one in any mafiafamily should be or even could be. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her, pull her to me to keep her that way. Keep her safe from this ugly, violent world.
I lean toward her. “Like I said before, you taste good enough to eat.” Her blush deepens and I straighten. Wink. “But time and place, Allegra.”
She snorts, but sets her small hand in mine and I help her out. The wind blows and Allegra shivers, hugging her arms around herself. She’d slipped her coat off during the drive. I drape my arm over her shoulders and pull her to my side to keep her warm. She resists at first, but then her body yields and I can’t explain what I feel when she does that.
“Well, I’ll be,” says an old woman’s voice I recognize.
I watch as Mrs. Thurston slides the window wide open.
“Am I seeing a ghost?” she asks, rubbing her eyes. “Is that you, Cassian Trevino?”
I smile wide, so happy to see her. She must be in her eighties now and I’m not sure what I expected when I took that detour. For all I knew, the shop could have been boarded up years ago. It’s been a decade at least since I’ve been here.
“No ghosts, Mrs. Thurston. It’s me, Cassian.”
“Come over here, let me get a look at you,” she says, peering out from inside the window. I extend my hands to hers and she takes them, squeezes, her old eyes searching mine.
“I’m surprised you remembered me,” I say, noting the papery skin on her hands and face.
“I’d never forget those eyes. Where’s Seth? And your daddy?”
I clear my throat, my smile faltering. “Not here, but I brought someone else. This is Allegra. Allegra, this is Mrs. Thurston of Thurston’s frozen custard. Best you’ll have in your life.”
“Well now,” Mrs. Thurston says, letting go of my hands to take Allegra’s. “Nice to see Cassian has a girlfriend. You’ll make pretty babies with her, Cassian,” Mrs. Thurston says, and Allegra’s face goes a deep red.
“Oh, we’re not—” Allegra starts, but is cut off.
“Grandma, what are you doing? It’s freezing out there,” comes a voice from inside the shop which is attached to the Thurston’s modest home.
“Oh, here we go,” Mrs. Thurston says, rolling her eyes. “It’s all right, Libby I’m fine. And we have customers.”
Libby peers around her grandmother to see us, raising her eyebrows. I remember Libby as an awkward teenager. Now she’s grown up and carrying a toddler on one hip. Her surprise is evident when she sees me.
