Page 181 of Rosetti Family New York
Sloane may think she wants this, wants me, but she doesn't know what that means. Doesn't know about the blood and the bodies and the nightmares that come with them.
And yet something tells me she'd understand. That she'd look at the darkness in me and not flinch away. That maybe, just maybe, she has her own darkness that calls to mine.
I check the time again and refocus on her building. The street remains silent, empty under the night sky. I should be thinking about work, all the shit going down at the fighting ring, but no matter what, she's still there in my mind, front and center, mixing up every thought I have.
You're getting soft, Rosetti. It's Dom's voice in my head, warning me, reminding me of who I am. Who I have to be.
But as I stare at her apartment window, watching for any sign of movement, I know it's already too late. Something about Sloane Carter has worked its way inside me, beneath my skin, like a splinter I can't remove. And the worst part is, I'm not sure I want to.
She deserves better than me. Better than this life, these hands, this legacy. And yet, the selfish part of me, the part that's always taken what it wants, wonders if I could be enough. If I could keep her safe in my world without destroying what makes her so goddamn bright.
Not fucking likely. People like me don't get happy endings. We get blood and nightmares and lonely stakeouts in cold cars.
And still, I stay. Watching her window, counting the minutes, making sure she's safe. Making sure she's still there. I tell myself it's for her protection, but I know it's as much for me as it is for her. I need her to be safe. I need her to exist in this world, even if I can never have her.
Because whatever this is—obsession, protection, something darker I don't want to name—I can't walk away. Not yet.
10
Sloane
It's been days since I walked away from Rafe at the fighting ring, his refusal to help still stinging. "I can't do this," he'd said, dismissing me and my quest for answers about Maddy's death. Fine. If the mighty Rafaele Rosetti won't help me, I'll find the truth myself. That's why I'm here, standing outside this seedy bar in the worst part of town, heart hammering against my ribs. I know it's dangerous, exactly what Rafe warned me about, but I'm out of options. I take a deep breath and push the door open.
The smell hits me first, like the whole of Brooklyn's been crammed into one grubby room. It's sweat and smoke, and I'm already a walking ashtray. I've got to make this quick. Find someone who knows what Maddy got mixed up in before they killed her. Someone who knows why. It's darker than the inside of a guilty mind, so I squint toward the bar. Everything here is sticky—floors, stools, even the glares from the men lined up like predators. I pull my jacket close and order a drink, anything to look like I belong.
"Corona?" I croak. "Please?"
The bartender gives me a once-over that screams fresh meat before slamming the bottle down in front of me. I perch on a stool and watch the crowd. It’s not comforting. Big men with bad tattoos and worse attitudes fill the room. A guy at a corner table has a knife out, idly stabbing it between his fingers. I wonder if he’d loan it to me for a minute. Just until I’m done here.
The Callahans run this place. It took a few days digging around the seediest Irish bars in New York to discover that, and I pat myself on the back for making progress. Maddy had some connection to the Callahans, one I need to know about if I’m going to figure out why she’s dead. My confidence unravels as fast as the label on my beer. The one that says IMPORTED FROM MEXICO but feels about as authentic as I do right now.
The bartender's still watching. If this whole psych thing doesn't work out, maybe I’ll take up acting. Right. Because I’m definitely fooling everyone.
The front door opens, and I flinch, hoping, half expecting to see Rafaele Rosetti. But of course it isn’t him. He made it very clear he has no intention of helping me, and that I’m on my own. Fine, that’s how I operate best anyway.
Instead, it's some guy in a leather jacket, all mean angles and greasy hair, and he’s heading my way. Definitely not on my Christmas card list. He weaves through the crowd, eyes fixated on me like I’m his own personal bullseye. My pulse kicks up a notch as he gets closer. He looks like trouble, the kind that’s got no problem dealing with outsiders. My mind starts running in circles, wondering what exactly I’m going to say when he reaches me.
And who else might show up if I say the wrong thing?
Men around him part like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea, all of them just as rough-looking, but none with the same air of menace. He's almost here now. No point pretending I don't seehim, so I set my drink down and try not to flinch as he stops in front of me.
"You lost?" he asks, hovering over me like a rain cloud.
"I'm looking for a friend," I say. "Madeleine Torres? Maddy."
I study his face, waiting, when I see a flicker in his eyes. A flash so quick I almost miss it, but it’s there. He knows her. He knows exactly who she is. But more importantly, he knows what she was doing mixed up with the Callahans. He recovers fast, eyes going hard again as he looks me over like he’s deciding whether I'm worth the hassle. I hold my breath. For a moment, I think he might actually answer. Then he snorts. A sound that's almost like a laugh.
"You a cop or something?" he asks. He leans in closer, voice low, all threat now. I can practically taste the danger. "Get out now. You got no business here."
The noise of the bar fades. All I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.
"Maybe she was working with someone," I say, pushing. "With the Callahans?"
I grit my teeth to stop my voice from shaking, knowing if I look scared, I'm screwed.
I watch his face, praying for another tell. Anything. Around us, the room teems with men who look like they'd rather smash a bottle over my head than answer a single question.
"Maddy's dead, sweetheart," he finally says, like he’s picking each word to hurt. He takes a swig from my beer and smirks. "Better off than you’ll be if you keep asking around."
