Page 14 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
Her eyes lit up. “To absorb the alcohol?”
Was he still staring at me? Why was he still staring at me?
“Yes.”
Look away, Damsel.
“I can’t imagine charcoal binding to alcohol well,”—my briefing had mentioned it, but with Damian so close, I’d forgotten that Lucy majored in some field of biology—“but I’d like to test it. Maybe on myself. Like a guinea pig. I’ve always had the spirit of a guinea pig. They’re soft and furry. I had one once.”
Her words slurred together a bit as she rambled on and on. “Well, a foster brother of mine had one. I think he ran away or something, because my foster dad—he was a total asshole, and I hated him so much, thank goodness I left—told me the guinea pig would never come back, short of an act of God, which was something he would never inspire.”
She stopped to hiccup. “But even if he could inspire an act of God, I don’t think it would be to resurrect a guinea pig. Or was it a hamster?”— Good lord, did she blurt out everything that came into her mind?—“I actually don’t know what the difference is. Either way, it was really cute. It had these tiny little whiskers, and it’d just eat anything I’d throw its way. That wasn’t much, by the way, because we had no food or money or anything really.”
She turned to face me. “What was I talking about? Oh, right. God. No, acts of God. I think the act of God he’d inspire is, like, unlimited beer or something. Not resurrecting a guinea pig. Why are we talking about guinea pigs?”
Good grief, I needed her to sober up and stop talking like Captain Jack Sparrow needed rehab and a colonic.
I turned to Lucy and nailed her with a fake smile. “We were talking about charcoal or carbon capsules. They’ve never failed me.” Not that I drank often. I changed the subject before she could give me a verbal essay on charcoal versus carbon. “Vincent was one of the best men I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine any other mafia figure garnering this crowd. Not even my own father.”
This had to be the worst redirect. I didn’t want to talk about my father, and I wanted to talk about Vincent even less. I pushed away the spasm of pain at the thought of Vincent’s death, trying my best to build some emotional distance.
And emotional distance included overcoming the torment of living in a world where Vincent Romano no longer existed. To be honest, that world scared me. He and Maman were the purest parts of my life in the mafia world.
Don’t be weak.
You’re a Vitali.
Vitalis don’t feel fear.
I could almost feel the phantom sting of my dad’s palm striking my face. A feeling which had always accompanied those words.
For the first time today, I focused on the feeling of Damian’s gaze on my back. It was better than the pain of losing Vincent. When I was younger, Maman used to take me into the city, and the two of us would have dinner with Vincent nearly every time. It hadn’t taken me long to become suspicious of why these dinners remained so secretive. Unmarked town cars with tinted windows. Car swaps. Obscure dinner locations. Private dining rooms.
If I had to bet on something, it’d be that Maman and Vincent had been in love. They may not have shared a physical affair, but it had been, without a doubt, an emotional one. That should have upset me. After all, Papà’s infidelities pissed me off.
But Maman was different. She was the parent who loved and protected me, and every piece of me needed to do the same for her. That was why, when Maman had asked me to represent the Vitali name at Vincent’s funeral, I agreed. She couldn’t come without raising suspicion, and Vincent had been my second father in every way short of marrying my mom. I was sure he would have, too, had my father not been a Vitali.
“Who’s your father?”
Wow, she really had no clue.
I ignored her question. My eyes shifted to Lucy, and I hoped she could see the sorrow in them. It was the truest thing I had to offer. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She shook her head, her movements fervent and resolute for someone inebriated. “Don’t be. He lived and died on his own terms. It’s more than most of us can hope for.”
Her words cut me unexpectedly. Nothing about my life could be described as “on my own terms.” If that were the case, I would be standing beside Damian, not rows apart, my skin burning at the way his eyes stayed glued to my body. Itch. Scratch. Burn. I wanted to do all three the longer he looked at me.
How could he stand the sight of me after the way I had left him?
I could see this snowballing in the near future, and I unleashed an impulsive plan to stop it. I lifted my arm and pretended to scratch at an itch on my elbow, making sure the sun glimmered off the giant diamond on my wedding ring finger. It shone in a way that I knew reached two rows back.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw Damian glance away.
My heart tightened.
Unhappiness coursed through my veins.
And for the life of me, I couldn’t explain why I’d done what I’d just done.
