Page 4 of Till Death Do Us Part

“Just get your ass through the window, Y. We don’t have time to discuss this.”

“Looo!” I was in no shape to climb through. My heels were high, and the alcohol buzz was still going strong. All this together added up to disaster. My sister had to catch me before I high-fived the parking lot with my forehead.

Instead of her steadying me, though, we both went down. We started laughing so hard, we couldn’t get up.

“Bish!” She slapped at me, cracking up. “You look slim, but you must weigh a ton! It’s gotta be your height. What are you? Six feet of solid bone?”

“I’m five seven, thank you very much. What are we doing, Lo?” I sighed and finally sat up, knocking some parking lot rubble off my legs. “Why are we out here without our babysitters?”

“I had a connection with the guy in the striped shirt. I’m doing it, Y! I’m taking charge of my V status. I might commit my life to someone out of duty, but…tonight is all mine. I hear opportunity knocking, and I’ll be damned if I don’t answer it. This is forme.”

Before I could respond, shadows started to move toward us. The guys from the table had converged and were grinning down at us. Lo grinned back and offered her hand to the one in the striped shirt. She needed help standing.

He yanked her up so hard, she made a breathless sound, then went to say, “What the f—?” But the breath was knocked out of her when he punched her in the stomach.

I didn’t even have time to scream.

Curly Locks had my hair in death grip, and he was using it to drag me toward a darker area of the parking lot. Once the shock wore off, adrenaline kicked in and I started to fight. I was no match for him, though, and before I knew it, the world went dark.

Chapter2

Felice

One of the earliest memories I had of my old man was him taking me to a park where a couple of kids were playing. It was Chicago in early winter, and the snow hadn’t fallen enough to keep the ground from being slick. My old man was supposed to meet someone there for business.

I stood next to him, watching as two boys hurled a football back and forth. One missed the throw, and when he ran to get it, he slipped and hit his head.

“Blood,” I’d said, pointing.

My old man looked away from the kid and down at me. “What you said?”

“Blood,” I repeated.

“I don’t see no blood.” He narrowed his eyes at the kid.

A second later, a pool of red blossomed underneath the kid’s head. The other boy glanced at us before he and my father went to check on the kid who had slipped. He had a split on the back of his head that needed stitches.

It was late when we left the hospital. The kid’s mom had to be called at work, and the entire process took time. I remembered the streetlights hitting my old man’s eyes as he drove his big black Cadillac. He wore a dark suit underneath a thick coat, and his hands were still stained with the kid’s blood. Wasn’t the first time I noticed the same stains on him.

“How’d you know the kid was bleeding?”

I stared at the profile of his face and then shrugged. “Smelled it.”

“Smelled it,” he repeated. I couldn’t tell if he was curious or shocked.

“It smells like a wet penny would taste to me, but saltier.” I thought about what I always assumed was his cologne until I made sense of what it actually was. Blood. I shrugged again. “There’s no mistaking it.”

“No,” he said, and his voice took on a softer tone, almost as if he was thinking while answering. “There’s no mistaking it when it calls to you because you’re a carnivore, John. Just like me.”

Rarely did he or any of his friends call me by my given name, Felice. They called me the English equivalent of my middle name. John. In Italian, it’s Giovanni.

Even years later, the carnivore in me scented the smell of blood before I even made it to the hospital room. Between the strong antiseptics usually permeating the air, the metallic, salty smell lingered. Except this time, it smelled a bit sweeter to me, almost like lingering perfume.

A group of men I recognized hovered outside of a door. They all wore dark suits and grim expressions. They were speaking in hushed tones, oblivious to the medical staff hustling around them.

Tommaso Russo, who was the boss of the Outfit, wore the grimmest expression of all as he listened to the conversation. He was in his mid-seventies, on the verge of retirement, but was still as sharp as his custom-made suit. He’d seen and done a lot in his life, so if something brought him out of his bed at this hour, it must have been dire.

Cassio Ricci, who like me was one of the closest men to Tommaso, used the wall to brace himself, hand in his pocket, staring at the ground. His eyes were vacant of his thoughts. He’d called me as I was leaving the nightclub. He told me the boss wanted to see me and where to go. That was all it took.

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