Page 102 of Promised to the Killer

Siena’s hand trembles in mine as we sit in my BMW at the edge of The Velvet Rope’s parking lot three days after our meeting with her brothers.

She doesn’t speak. I’m not sure she’s capable of talking right now, and I can’t blame her. Enzo set this up and told me what time to meet him. We’re here a few minutes early, but I’d rather be parked and prepared in case of something happening, although I can tell the wait’s driving Siena insane.

It’s one thing to want to kill your own father, and another to actually do it.

I try to imagine murdering my father. I try to picture putting a gun against his head and squeezing the trigger. Not in the abstract—actually murdering him in cold blood. I try to see it, but the image won’t come.

I’ve had countless reasons to want to kill my own father. From the borderline abusive training to the neglect to the impossible standards to the general coldness with which he treated me. A thousand reasons, and yet none seem good enough.

He’s still my father. Despite not being blood, he raised me. He taught me what it means to be a man and how I should function in this world. He helped give me purpose and he cared about me—in his own way. He saved me from being an orphan on the streets of Moscow when I was a little boy and my parents died.

But how he treated me pales in comparison to the Bastone family.

They’re a ruin. I saw it written all over Enzo at the park. He was a twitchy mess. The other brothers weren’t much better: Franco could barely raise his head and look at the world, and Santo grinned and grinned and joked to keep the pain at bay. They’re barely holding on.

Siena was right to want her father dead. That was my initial thought but I knew I couldn’t be the one to propose it. Coming from me, it would sound heinous. But coming from them? From the people that love their papa the most? It sounds like a mercy. A monstrous, terrible mercy.

I squeeze Siena’s hand and she smiles at me. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

“Just wondering how we got to this point. I remember when I was a little girl, Papa used to let me ride on his back like he was a horse. Enzo would run around, and I’d ride on Papa and chase after him. Those were good days.”

“Things were simpler when we were children. Our parents found it easier to love us.” I smile and lift her fingers to my lips. I kiss them, one by one. “I know it hurts. But it’s going to be better for your brothers. It’s hard for them to see it right now, but imagine how much stronger and happier they’ll be without your father wearing them down.”

“I know, and that’s why I’m going through with it. This is for them, not for me. If I had my way, we’d leave Dallas tomorrow and never look back.”

I lean across the car and kiss her. I stare into her eyes and touch her cheek gently. “You’re a good person at heart, Siena, even though the world’s given you a thousand reasons not to be.”

She’s still wearing the bandage, not because the wound needs it, but because she thinks it’s too hideous to show.

I think she’s beautiful, and I’ll convince her to be proud of her scars eventually.

Scars are what make us who we are. Everyone has scars—some are etched into skin, and some are burned into memory. Nobody moves through life without a scar slicing them in half.

A black SUV pulls into the parking lot and rolls over toward the office. It parks and Siena sits up straight and watches as the doors open. Her brothers pile out—Enzo is behind the wheel, and Santo and Franco are in the back.

Her father gets out last. He shuffles from the passenger side and moves around the SUV toward the door. Enzo holds it, and as their father disappears inside, he looks across the parking lot and I swear we make eye contact. I’m too far for him to possible see me, but it’s like he can stare into my soul in that moment.

It’s haunting and hard to watch. But the brothers head inside, and the door swings shut.

“Time for us to go,” I say, checking my gun and tucking it into the holster. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“There’s no shame in staying behind, you know. There’s no reason to watch this.”

“He’s my dad.” That’s all she needs to say. I understand, even if the impulse won’t help anything. She climbs out and begins the walk toward her father’s doom.

I follow after her and catch her hand. I kiss her wrist and pull her against me. “I love you, Siena,” I say softly, touching her chin. “No matter what happens.”

She blinks rapidly and grins. “Are you seriously saying that right now? Right before we go in there and—you know, kill my dad?”

“I can’t think of a better time.”

“I can think of a hundred better times.”

“You needed to hear it.”

“God, you’re an insane person. And I love you too. You freaking psycho.” She laughs, a heady mixture of nerves and fear and pure joy, and I kiss her quickly before we walk hand in hand to the office.

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