Page 113 of Working for the Mob

Lance wanted to meet. He ordered me to drive to his office, but I needed to prep the café in case Genevieve did skip work.

Genevieve’s dad had one thing right: the bottled drinks flew off the shelves now that they faced the customers in the display. Something I should’ve thought of years ago.

I’m sure her dad would be thrilled that we broke it off. What kind of dad wants his daughter dating someone in the mafia?

I kept replaying our last conversation on loop in my head. She had no right to react the way she did. Sure, she’d been excited to go out to breakfast––she obviously spent time doing her hair and makeup. But I never asked her to do that. She could take my breath away just by getting out of bed.

I did the right thing. I knew it was the right thing. But why did I feel like the bad guy?

I shut the door to the display case just as Lance walked in from the back.

“You need to start locking your doors,” he said. “Did you not learn anything from last night?”

“I’m not in the fucking mood right now,” I said, and I pulled out my revolver. I placed it on the table to show him I’m prepared.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, and within a breath, the comprehension washed over his face and his eyes narrowed. “You idiot. You broke up with her, didn’t you?”

“It's none of your damn business what I do,” I said, and returned his gaze.

“You’re right. But somebody’s gotta tell you when you’ve got your head up your own ass, and I’m the only one in the whole town that’s got the balls to do it,” Lance said.

“That doesn’t mean I won't knock you out for running your yap.”

“You’re not as bulletproof as you think you are, Art. You’ve still got vulnerabilities just like anyone else,” he said. “You can’t keep living your life like a hermit.”

“You always seem to know how everyone else should run their lives, but you’ve never taken a second to consider what’s wrong with your own damn life.”

“You’re right,” Lance said. “It’s my fault.”

I froze. Lance had never admitted fault to anything since we were kids. He used to cause all sorts of trouble, blame me, and I’d end up taking the fall. Now he’d done it twice in one week. What the hell was going on?

“Damn right, it is,” I said as soon as I regained my composure.

“Do you even know what’s my fault?” Lance asked.

No.

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“You. You’re my fault,” he said. That made a whole lot of sense. “You feel the guilt for all the blood on your hands. It eats you up from the inside.”

“That’s bullshit. I don’t feel anything,” I growled.

“That’s the lie you tell yourself to get to sleep at night. But you do feel it. It’s why you hate me.”

“I hate you because you’re a narcissistic, arrogant, sociopath with more power than you deserve.”

“You hate me because I send you out to kill people and it weighs on your conscience like a half ton anvil,” he said.

“You’re too caught up in your own self-worth to know anything about me.”

The words came out of my mouth automatically. He had no right to come into the café that I ran and tell me what the hell I’m feeling.

“I’msorry, okay? I did this. I need you to know that you’re just the sword. You’re not the one sentencing those Valuncias to death. We’re in a war to protect our people and that’s all you’re doing,” he said.

But he was wrong.Ikilled those people. I’m the one who aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

“You didn’t break up with Genevieve because you want to keep her safe, or because you think you put her in danger, or whatever lie you’ve told yourself to justify making you both miserable. You broke up with her because you don’t think a killer deserves to be loved by her,” he said.

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