Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

I stare at Leone, open-mouthed. The underboss often pecks at my stepbrother. More than once I’ve heard him commenting how Dad never should have allowed Massimo to live with us. Batista figures that Massimo should have been sent away to a boarding school when my dad married Laura. I’ve neverliked the man. His greasy hair and body odor make me gag, but it’s his ass-kisser attitude that sickens me the most. Living at my father’s house, I’ve noticed that Leone has often come by uninvited. At least once a week he’d show up at our door. Even when my father had friends over for a social occasion, the underboss somehow had always ended up being included. He would glue himself to my father, praising the don’s achievements for hours, never missing a chance to point himself out as an important element in whatever endeavor was discussed.

The conversation around the table switches to investment plans, with Brio, another capo, proposing we expand into the hospitality industry. He goes on and on about how hotels could increase profits.

“I’ll consider it,” my father says. “There were some unexpected expenses at the new casino. Business expansion may need to wait until next year.”

“Why?” The man sitting next to Tiziano turns toward my father. He’s one of the biggest investors in the Family’s enterprises. “The cash flows show a significant increase in revenues. Why wait?”

“Just a precaution, Adriano. We need a better analysis of the hotel market before investing heavily into a large project like that.” My father waves his hand casually, but I notice a glance he exchanges with Batista Leone. He quickly rises, saying, “I’m afraid I have to leave you all now. Duty calls. Girls?”

I conceal a sigh of relief for being spared from pretending to eat more weird dishes, and after saying my goodbyes, hurry after the don.

“Zara and I will grab a taxi. We need to pick up some rolls of fabric for her,” I say while our dad is getting into the back seat of his car.

“Hopefully, it’ll be something other than black or brown.” He scrutinizes Zara’s maroon outfit, a set of wide-leg pants and a matching blazer.

“Ignore him,” I say, squeezing Zara’s hand as we watch the limo pull out onto the street.

As we head in the opposite direction, a light prickling at the back of my neck urges me to turn and take a look around, but I don’t notice anything amiss. It happens quite often—now and then, I get this weird feeling as if someone is watching me, but when I look for a potential cause, there’s no one there.

“Strange,” I mumble, then link my arm with Zara’s. “I think there’s a good burger joint down the street.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon eating junk food and treats, hanging out at the fabric store, and trying on clothes at a small couture dress shop, but all the while, I can’t shake that feeling of eyes following me.

Chapter 6

Fall in New England. The scenery might be nice, but the unseasonably cold wind makes the pedestrians hold their coats tightly to their chests as they hurry along the sidewalks. I wait for the traffic light to change, then cross to the other side of the street, heading toward the vet clinic. It’s almost seven in the evening, so they’ll be closing soon. I should have been back at the base by now, delivering my mission report to Kruger, but I chose to make a slight detour to Boston and check up on my cub again. Ashort, eight-hour round trip out of the way.

It’s been four months since she found me in that dark alley, and I still can’t get her out of my head. The need to know she’s safe consumes me. It’s more than an obsession—it’s a primal urge. One that must be obeyed or I’m going to lose my shit. Something that started as quick checkups every couple of weeks, has now turned into hours-long sessions of just watching her. Keeping my eyes on her, because nothing can touch her on my watch. Nothing can harm her when I’m near.

Lately, I’ve had to be more mindful to keep out of sight. She nearly caught me looking at her about three weeks ago. I was too fucking stunned watching her from across the street as she tried on dresses at a little store with her friend. The vision of her—so beautiful—had me nearly drooling like a teenager. I almost lost my head and forgot to move into the shadows when she swepther gaze through the massive storefront window. I’ve had to be more careful ever since and have been timing my “visits” so they happen in the evenings, when she’s done at the vet clinic. And that way, I can follow her home to make sure she arrives safely.

I stop on the sidewalk across from the clinic. The glass double doors give me a clear view of a middle-aged woman moving around the reception area, collecting her belongings. My cub is further back, restocking the shelves with packages of pet food.

The woman throws something over her shoulder, and they both fall into a fit of laughter. I wish I was closer so I could hear it. Hear the happiness in my cub’s voice as it washes over me. Her smile is bright, and her movements are graceful, so I tell myself to simply be content with seeing her be free. Free to live in the light. Free to experience the warmth of that life.

The other woman approaches my girl and nudges her with an elbow, saying something in the process. I snap to attention immediately, ready to head over and wring the shrew’s neck for hurting my tiger cub, but my girl just giggles. Why is she allowing it? Why is she not fighting back, defending herself? Even if it was just a little shove, she should be returning the hit, or others will start mistreating her. She definitely shouldn’t be hugging the woman as she’s doing now.

My eyes narrow into slits while I try to analyze this strange behavior, but come up with nothing. Did I misunderstand the woman’s intent? Give me a target, and I’ll have it eliminated in under twenty seconds. But this—ordinary people—I don’t get.

I’ve lived in foster homes with a lot of different kids. A lot of boys who, at the time, were older and bigger than me. For as long as I can remember, I tried to avoid being around other kids, adults—anyone really—because they enjoyed taking outtheir frustrations on the scrawny kid that I was. Inevitably, those situations didn’t end well for the other party. They hurt me. And I would hurt them back. Tenfold. I might have been smaller and younger, but I had a lot of prior experience in defending myself.

That proficiency was gained hard and fast. Call it an intrinsic condition. Because, no matter what people believe, the fact is, life is a fucking jungle, and there’s only one rule in it. Kill, or be killed. Figuratively, or literally, it doesn’t matter much. That’s how this world of ours works. I’ve adapted to live it in. Survive in it. I know the dangers and the threats.

What I don’t get is “normal” for the folks who haven’t seen the ugly underbelly of our so-called enlightened society. So, as the older woman leaves, and my girl stays behind, I dismiss their interaction as beyond my grasp. I refocus on my purpose here, on heeding that inherent instinct.

I watch my cub as she wipes the counter, using a white cloth while rolling her hips. Left then right, a shimmy follows her hand movements. It looks like she’s dancing. And even though I can’t hear the tune, I’m fairly certain she’s offbeat. Once she’s done with her task, she does a rather clumsy ballet twirl, then throws the rag across the room, directly into a basket in the corner.

She’s fine. She’s always fine.

I should turn around and head back to New York, but I can’t make my legs move. What would she do if I walked in there now? I have no fucking reason to be here, and less than that to speak with her again. And what would we even talk about? I have no idea how to make small talk. I suck at any kind of conversation.

Keeping my eyes on my cub, I unbutton my left shirt sleeve and roll it up to my elbow, then grab the knife I keep sheathed at my ankle. My blades are always razor-sharp, so it only takesthe slightest pressure to puncture the skin on my forearm. Purposefully, knowing exactly what it takes not to sever the muscle tissue, I slowly drag the tip of a knife from my elbow toward my wrist. Blood runs down to my hand once I’m finished with the grisly deed, big red drops fall onto the sidewalk and land at my feet. The cut is shallow, but long enough to require several stitches. Enough of a reason for me to seek her out again. Returning the knife to its leather holder, I head across the street.

A cheery chime sounds above the door as I step inside. The upbeat notes of a popular song I’ve heard on the radio stream from the phone that lies on a small shelf by the coat rack. My girl is standing in front of a wall cabinet, rearranging a few supplies, and humming to herself.

“Forgot your car keys again, Leticia?” she chirps while still focused on what she’s doing.

I take another step forward, dripping the blood onto the floor. “Not exactly.”