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“To end this,” he says, looking down at the unconscious guy.
“What does that mean?” I tighten my grip on him.
“When I come back, we need to talk. And I’ll tell you everything about what I do. What my family does.”
“Tell me now,” I insist, because I have a pretty good—if not bizarre—idea of what that is. Still, there are too many questions I need answers to.
“Michael, now is not the time. Somebody could see us. I need to take this shithead away.” His voice is composed, but his hands are still balled up into fists.
“Away where? What will you do to him?”
He shakes off my hand and grabs the guy’s feet, dragging him toward the end of the alley.
“Raph, we should call the police. Detective Spencer…”
“Rami also said that the police have no new leads. Nothing was stolen from the morgue, and they couldn’t identify the guy from the video feed or his fingerprints,” Raph tells me while still hauling the body across the dirty ground.
“But we can. We got the guy,” I try again.
“Yes. And he’ll pay for hurting you.”
“You meanyouwill make him pay.” Raph doesn’t acknowledge my words and keeps going, until he reaches the end of the narrow path. The light from the street reveals his face, showing cold and unstoppable resolve.
“You don’t need to do it. Not for me,” I tell him in a softer tone.
He turns to me, while Rague opens the back of an old, black van. There’s a predatory smirk on Raph’s lips, one he had on his face when I first saw him that night at the convenience store.
“That’s the thing, babe, it’s not a choice. I need to do it,” he says cryptically. “Now go to the penthouse and wait for Rami.”
“But I want to come with you.” I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever I might find, but I want to know.
He studies my eyes for a few seconds. “Next time,” he says, making me sigh in relief. Or irritation. A mix of both, maybe.
Together with Rague, they pull the guy up and toss him inside the van. The small back street is almost deserted, but the way they did it looked like they were helping a drunk friend.
“What time will you come back home?” I ask Raph before he gets inside the car. He stops and then turns to me, eliminating the distance between us. The kiss he gives me is hungry and dirty and too quick. But when he pulls away, a sweet smile I’ve never seen before softens his face. “It’ll take some time before I get… home. Try to sleep.”
Like that’s possible. The adrenaline is still rushing inside me. And I’m dreading finding out what they’ll do with the guy they just threw inside the van. Not because I care about his fate—I actually hope he rots in hell—but I do worry about Raph.
Nevertheless, I do as he said. On the way back to the penthouse, I can’t stop myself from continuously checking if someone is following me—like a paranoid nut case. I take a long, calming breath only when the elevator opens inside Raph’s apartment. Rami is not here yet, and the place is eerily silent.
I stumble to the bathroom, yanking my pants off and then the rest of my clothes, not caring where they fall. Once I’m naked, I get inside the shower stall and let the water try to wash away the scary, so damn surreal occurrence I’ve just experienced. I try to focus on my body.
The cut on my chest isn’t deep, and the back of my head hurts only slightly. I don’t feel a bump under my fingers. My tense muscles start to relax under the soothing cascade, and I wish I could enjoy its warm cocoon fully. But my errant mind won’t let me.
I can’t stop seeing the guy’s cruel eyes or feeling the sting of his knife against my skin. Hearing his threatening words.
“Fuck!” My hands ball up against the shower tiles and I squeeze my eyes.
I recall more. Rague’s collected, almost cocky demeanor. The cable tie at hand, and the shady black van. The confident way they took care of the guy. Raph’s imperturbable behavior and cold execution when facing danger. At the convenience store, he knew the gun’s safety was on just with a look. Rami's fast ways of obtaining information. How the whole family seems interested and at ease when talking about crimes. What does it all mean?
I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Water runs in rivulets down my chest and legs. I push my wet hair back and wipe the drops off my face.
What we do, Raph had said. Are they criminals? And if they are, do I still want to be part of the family? To stay with him?
My reflection catches my eye. The cuts covering my arms are such a harsh sight. White and reddish lines. Irregular scars. Each one reminds me of my perversion. The skin feels uneven under my fingertips. I’ve always perceived them as the ugly, shameful proof of my deviance—until Raph. Because when he looks at them, he just sees me. He doesn’t feel repulsed or horrified. On the contrary, he wants to share my wickedness with me. He understands my inner need.
But is he a gangster? An assassin? A thug? Could I ever leave him if he was?
