Deal with the Devil (6 page)

“Get the fuck off of me.”

He slides backward off of the bed, hatred in his eyes. “Fucking cunt.”

“Right back at you.” I gesture with the gun, never taking my eyes off of him. “Get in the corner. You too, Mom.”

She scurries away from the door to huddle behind Mack, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. The urge to shoot her is so overwhelming that I slide my finger away from the trigger to keep from giving in to it.

I maneuver off the bed to the side nearest the door, which is my closest route to escape. My hands stay steady. I thank God for all those times I insisted that Papa let me shoot beer cans with him in the empty lot behind Sonny’s Bar. He never thought it was right for women to be handling guns. But somehow I’ve always known that this day would come.

That one day I’d be the only one left who cares what happens to me.

All I can think about is getting out of the room, out of the house and away from them. I’ll figure out what do next after that.

Mack eyes the barrel of the gun. And then his gaze moves to my face, calculating and assessing. I can almost hear his thoughts like they’re being broadcast into my own head — 
I can get the gun away from her. She won’t actually pull the trigger.

The muscles in his legs coil and one knee bends ever so slightly. He’s going to lunge for me.

My finger squeezes the trigger before my brain really even has a chance to react. I aim center mass but the shot goes wide and catches him high on the leg.

Mack screams. And then so does my mother until the sounds are indistinguishable.

I can’t decide which one of them sounds more like a woman.

“You bitch. You shot me, you 
fucking 
bitch!” He collapses against one post of the bed, eyes blazing with anger, hate and more than a little fear.

“I’m leaving,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Don’t follow me.”

Mack stares at me with more hatred in his eyes than I’ve ever seen before. Even if he is high as a kite, I know he won’t ever forget this. I’m determined to never be alone with him again.

I back out of the room. My purse is on the dresser and I grab it with one hand, keeping the pistol held out with the other. I move as quickly as I can because if he decides to rush me now, there’s no way I can hit a moving target one-handed.

But Mack just leans on the bed with my mother frantically crying behind him. He stares at me like he’s imagining every horrible torture known to man and doing it all to me.

I don’t run until I get to the stairs, taking them two at a time until I hit the front door. Outside, the night is quiet and cold. I’m painfully aware of the fact that I’m only wearing pajamas with no shoes.

There’s usually a peace to being out alone at night when everyone else is asleep. It feels like the whole world is only yours. Except this is the world where Papa is dead and my mother is inside his house. She's in there right now, consoling the man who just tried to beat me to death for money that isn’t even his.

The isolation weighs on me like a funeral shroud.

And there’s only one person left in the entire world that I can think of to ask for help.

T
his fucking girl
.

Mara Matarazzo sits on a barstool at the island in my kitchen. Her face is set as proper and prim as it would be if she were sitting down for tea with the Queen of England. She looks like one of those girls straight out of finishing school.

Except for the fact that she’s wearing a thin spaghetti-strap tank top that does nothing to hide the curve of her tits. Or the fact that her nipples are rock hard from being outside in December.

I have to tear my gaze away before I go rock hard too.

When I got her phone call, I’d just been sitting down to relax after what’s been a very long day. Instead, I had to get in the car and pick her up at the convenience store down the street from Vito’s place. I hadn’t expected to find her shivering on the street in her fucking pajamas.

The glass of Pappy Van Winkle, resting next to me on the counter, isn’t going to be enough to get me through tonight.

“Tell me again,” I bite out through gritted teeth. “Slowly.”

So, she does. Calmly detailing being jerked awake by her piss stain of a stepfather in the middle of the night. Just so he and Cecile could threaten her for money.

I’m seeing red. I make myself knock back another mouthful of whiskey before I explode.

“And then I shot him.”

“You shot him?” I swear I’m not going deaf. But even though I’ve heard her say it a few times already, I must not be 
hearing
 it.

“Just in the leg.” She sedately turns on the stool to rummage in the purse sitting next to her on the counter. “With this.”

I immediately rear back when she pulls out a 9mm Walther.

“Jesus, give me that.” I grab it out of her hands as quickly as I can without startling her. The last thing I need is for her to shoot me, too. “Where did you get this?”

“Papa’s house. I still remember all his old hiding places.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” I eject the clip and pull back the slide. Crazy bitch still had a round chambered. “You were just walking around with this?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Was I supposed to leave it with them?”

That fucking mouth. 
I still can’t quite believe she shot her stepfather. Or maybe I can. This girl has a steel rod where her spine should be. “No, princess. But you’re lucky you didn’t get picked up before I got to you.”

Mara closes her purse and returns her hands to her lap, shoulders still ramrod straight. “Mack won’t call the police. But you should probably get rid of that, just in case.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

She eyes the half-f bottle of whiskey at my elbow. “May I?”

I take a glass off of the shelf behind me and push it across the wooden counter. To my surprise, she pours a healthy amount, brings the glass to her full lips and drains it in one breath.

“I like this,” she says, pouring another glass. “What is it?”

“Expensive.” I bend to rest my forearms on the counter and regard her for a long moment. I’m trying like hell to figure out what this girl’s deal is. She doesn’t lean back or look away but meets my gaze with a steady one of her own. Like this is the most normal interaction in the world.

“You even legal to drink?” I ask, after a long silence that any normal woman would have felt compelled to break.

“My birthday is in two months,” she says with a sly little wink. “But I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

The conspiratorial look on her face makes me want to grab her and throw her over the table. That look is all I need to know that there’s something wild buried underneath the calm and collected veneer. And all I want to do is drag it out of her of her gasping body.

I have to remind myself for the thousandth time that she’s off limits. Although the most important part of me doesn’t seem to be listening.

The darkness inside of me would destroy a girl like her.

If Mara is bothered by my silence, she hides it well. She looks around the apartment, her intense gaze seeming to take in every detail. Not that there are many. My outer space is a reflection of the inner one — clean, efficient and unsentimental. There are no pictures on the walls. Everything is decorated in black or shades of gray, from the dark leather couch to the walls painted a dull silver.

“You can sleep on the couch,” I tell her. “There’s some extra blankets and stuff in the closet over there.”

A gentleman would offer her the bedroom, but women only get in there for exactly one reason. I don’t see the point of making an exception. Call me an asshole, but at this point, me not forcing myself on her is the best she’s gonna get.

Mara sighs. For a moment, I get a glimpse at the deep weariness that she’s obviously trying to hide. “I bet you’re really regretting helping me out right about now.”

I’ve been regretting it since pretty much the beginning, but I don’t tell her that.

“You got a plan?” I ask, instead.

“Not, really.” She takes a sip of whiskey and makes a face. “The probate hearing is tomorrow and I have an appointment at the bank right after. I have to go back to Ithaca at some point so I can finish my last exam. The professor only gave me a two-week extension.”

“What about your stepdad and your mom?”

“That bitch is not my mother. Not anymore.” Mara spits the words out. It’s the most emotion she’s shown since she walked through the door.

I don’t have any comfort to offer her. I’m more of an action-focused guy. “How’re you gonna keep ‘em off you?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” She clears her throat and neatly drains her glass. “You wouldn’t be able to come with me, would you?”

Because I haven’t done fucking enough. “Yeah, sure.”

She must hear something in my voice because the gaze she turns on me is suspicious. “You never did say why you’re so willing to help me.”

There’s no harm in telling her if I’m about to spend the next few days playing nursemaid to little orphan Annie. “Vito asked me to make sure nothing happened to you. Right before he died.”

Mara just stares at me. “Why would he ask you to do that?”

“Don’t fucking ask me. When a guy uses his last breath to ask you to do something, there isn’t usually time for a bunch of questions.”

“You were there when he died?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t find out until after.” She looks away, letting out a breathy sigh. She looks like she’s about to cry. I hope she’s not expecting me to hug her or some shit. But when she turns back, her eyes are dry and the careful mask has descended over her features. “I guess that means you’re stuck with me for a while.”

“Looks like.”

It’s impossible to tell what this girl is thinking. I’ve never met a woman in my life this hard to read. If only she wasn’t a weight slung around my neck like a goddamn cross.

“I should try to sleep,” she murmurs, voice soft.

“Go ahead.”

I point her in the direction of the guest bathroom before heading back to my room. Even with the door closed, I can hear her moving around out there as she makes up the couch and settles down for what’s left of the night.

I’m not used to having someone else in my apartment. Houseguests have never been my thing, especially the kind that I’m not even fucking. Mara needs to get this shit together with her family quickly and go back to where she came from.

Unable to sleep, I ease open the bedroom door and glide soundlessly across the living room. Mara is asleep on the couch, her breathing deep and even.

She’s more relaxed when she sleeps as if some of the walls she so carefully built up have come down. She lays there like a kid, limbs sprawled at odd angles and the blanket wrapped around her midsection as if she’s been tossing and turning.

Except there’s nothing childlike about the curve of her exposed stomach where her shirt has ridden up. Or the way her tits strain at the thin fabric of her shirt with each breath she takes.

Fuck Vito for dropping dead without warning and leaving this mess in my lap.

And fuck her for being so hot and so completely untouchable.

I
dream about Papa
.

He’s walking with me down the street in the old neighborhood and I’m holding his hand. He towers over me, more than he has in years, so I must be a child.

I 
am
 a child because we’re going out for ice cream. It’s summer and Papa picked me up from school. They started calling emergency contacts because Cecile forgot to come get me. He promises me chocolate ripple so I’ll stop crying about being the last kid left at school.

I feel safe with him, just like I always have. Because Papa is the only one who’s always been there for me. My tiny hand wrapped up in his is some kind of metaphor for life.

But then I’m scared because there’s a man in front of us with a knife. He’s not as big as Papa, or maybe he’s just not as old, but he has a weapon and I don’t know what to do.

But Papa just laughs. He says something to the other man and then everything is okay. The knife gets put away and the man isn’t threatening us. Once again, Papa has kept me safe.

The man’s features float in and out of focus from the ether of dreams. At first, he is completely faceless and dark like something out of a nightmare. But when the knife goes away, some of the darkness recedes with it and I can see his face.

It’s Leo.

* * *

I
wake up feeling disoriented
. The walls are dark like a dungeon and I’m lying on something cold and yielding. Am I in hell?

Slowly reality seeps in as the haze of my dream recedes. I’m not in hell. I’m just in Leo’s penthouse apartment, which is decorated like the wet dream of a colorblind minimalist.

And the biting cold I feel against my skin isn’t a floor, but the unyielding surface of his leather couch. I’ve never understood the virtues of leather furniture. It’s freezing in the winter and you stick to it in the summer. There’s nothing like curling up with a good book on something that feels like rawhide.

The dream sticks with me longer than mine usually does. It’s strange that I even remember it because that’s a rarity for me.

Was it even a dream or was it a memory?

The Leo in my dream didn’t look much like the one sleeping in the other room. Dream Leo was smaller and more compact with a face unlined by age and a frenetic, desperate air that’s nothing like the coolly uninvolved Leo of now.

But I have other, distant memories of him, too. A man who looked just like the one in my dream sitting behind Papa around a table full of men in Sonny’s Bar. And another, where he came to the house to pick up a mysterious package that Papa wouldn’t let me inspect too closely.

Real life Leo comes bangs open the bedroom door and slams loudly down the hallway, with no regard for whether or not I’m still sleeping.

He turns the corner and sees me sitting up on the couch and staring at him. He grimaces and grunts what I assume is supposed to be a greeting before heading toward the kitchen.

I stand up, neatly fold the blanket and lay it over the back of the couch before following him.

“Not a morning person, I see,” I say as I slip into a seat at the bar.

I don’t know what it is that makes me want to needle him. But it’s like I can feel like there’s something curling under the surface of his cool exterior. I can’t help but poke at it like a sore spot.

Leo casts me a neutral look. “You like eggs?”

“Sure.”

He turns to the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of eggs and some shredded cheese. I watch as he fires up the stove, surprised at this evidence of his domesticity. Though it makes sense. A man living alone would have to figure out the basics pretty quick if he didn’t want to starve.

Though something tells me that, single or not, Leo doesn’t spend many nights alone.

“I remember you,” I say, apropos of nothing.

He glances at me over his shoulder, expression wary. “Yeah?”

“You tried to hold up my grandpa when I was a kid.”

To my surprise, he laughs. “Yeah, I did.”

“So you went from waving a knife in his face to getting a deathbed request to take care of his only granddaughter? Sounds like there’s quite a story in between.”

It’s obvious that I’m fishing for information. It probably sounds crazy, but something about Leo has me feeling totally off-balance. One minute I think he’s about to eat me up like a juicy cut of steak. The next I feel like the annoying kid sister he never wanted.

He just shrugs. “Not really?”

I take the plate of eggs he hands me. “What did you do for him, like the kind of work I mean?”

“Little of this and that.” It’s almost the exact thing he said the last time that I asked.

“That’s no answer.”

Leo takes a casual bite of eggs, but the look he casts me over the plate is full of challenge. “I’m a garbage man.”

“Meaning what — you take out the trash?”

A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Something like that.”

What does that even mean…taking out the trash? Is he one of the enforcers that go around threatening to break people’s legs if they don’t pay their debts. Or does he offer up “protection” to local business owners? Or is he something worse?

I don’t have the courage to ask.

“What time is this legal thing?” He asks after the silence has stretched uncomfortably long.

“Um…10:30.”

“You think your mom’ll show?”

“Cecile, you mean,” I correct him, my voice sharp. I don’t even want to accept that the woman exists, much less acknowledge that we have any kind of relationship. “And I’m not sure. Probably depends on how high she is right now. And what she’s high on.”

“I’m guessing you’re not holding out much hope for rehab.” His expression is sardonic.

“Yeah, no. If I’d just inherited the money that Papa spent on detox centers and fancy rehabs over the years, I’d still have more than I know what to do with. She’s pathetic.”

“Fuck her, then. Sounds like you’re better off.”

And completely alone.
 I shove aside the devastating thought before it can overtake me. I’ve always had to be strong, to protect myself. Nothing about that has changed.

I get up to take my plate to the sink. Coming around the counter puts me in closer proximity to Leo than I’ve been since I first stepped foot in the apartment.

The air between us is suddenly charged and electric. Heat emanates off of him in waves, so much that it feels like I’ll be burned if I get closer.

So why do I so desperately want to get closer?

I look up to find him staring down at me, his dark eyes penetrating and unfathomable. The hand that rises to just barely brush over the light stubble on his cheek moves of its own volition. I can’t stop myself.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs, his analogy a mirror of my own.

I think I know what he means, but then I’m not sure that I do.

“Did I ever thank you for last night?” The thought suddenly occurs to me. “I just realized that I don’t think I did.”

His voice is husky. “You didn’t.”

“I feel like I should do something for you.”

I’m never bold like this. Nobody who knows me would peg me for the seductress. 
Boner-killer
 was what one guy said. That was after I told him Lynn wouldn’t be going home with him unless he could produce the results of an STD panel, dated within the last 30 days.

But something about Leo makes me feel different. Maybe it’s the way I catch him looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Or maybe it’s just that he’s literally the only person in the world right now that I can trust to keep me safe.

Which is incredibly ironic, considering I’m almost positive that he kills people for a living.

The thought of that should bother me. And on any other day, it probably would. But right now, all I can think is that he’s big and strong. That he knows how to take care of me, no matter what it takes.

He stands as still as a statue when I explore his face with the tips of my fingers. I have an attack of nervous self-consciousness. Is he not reacting because he’s desperately trying to think of a polite way to tell me he’s not interested or is it something else.

My thumb just barely dips past the curve of his bottom lip to graze the smooth wetness underneath.

Something inside of him seems to break.

Aggressively strong hands wrap around my upper arms in a bruising grip. I have exactly one moment of warning when the dark blaze of his eyes completely fills my vision and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is electrifying. He shoves me up against the small space between the side of the fridge and the counter so I’m trapped. I’m overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands sliding down my arms to curl around my waist and the press of his body against mine.

It makes sense for me to want him to want me. Wanting to sleep with me is as good a motivation as any to work at keeping me alive. But I only realize in that moment how much 
I 
want 
him.
 I want to be consumed and destroyed and then rebuilt from the ground up.

One of his hands moves up to lightly grasp my throat. His fingers press on the artery in my neck that jumps erratically with the frantic beat of my heart. When he presses harder, I momentarily see stars. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips, breaking the kiss.

He shoves back from me, the cold mask descending over his features. His expression reveals nothing but cool indifference.

“It isn’t going to happen, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I feign indifference, though his words hit me like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t want me. Why does that make me feel so awful? I barely even know this guy.

I’m used to guys not wanting me, to always being the girl that gets overlooked. But with him, it hits me harder than it ever has before.

“My appointment is in twenty minutes,” I say, keeping my voice casual even as I scream in frustration on the inside. “We should go.”

Leo agrees quickly and walks past me out of the kitchen, maneuvering so we don’t touch. He probably can’t wait to get rid of me. I should be used to rejection and abandonment by now, but this still hurts way more than it should.

* * *

T
he courthouse is
on the other side of town. The awkward ride there feels like it takes forever. All I want to do is melt into the seat and disappear forever. The burn of embarrassment is almost more than I can handle.

I hope that the meeting goes off without any problems so I can head back to school. I just want to forget I’ve ever met anyone named Leo Baglio.

I pull at the waistband of the jeans. He picked them up for me at Walmart, since I obviously haven’t been back home to get any clothes. They ride low on the hips and if I bend too much, there’s a real risk of exposing more than just my belly button.

If he even notices my discomfort, Leo appears blithely unconcerned. He relaxes into the driver’s seat. His hands lightly grip the wheel. He navigates easily through midday traffic as if it’s second nature.

I wish I could just hate him.

Leo parallel parks in a space a few blocks away from the courthouse. I move to jump out of the car, but a restraining hand on my arm stops me.

“You see that?” he asks when I turn to him in surprise.

I follow his gaze to a bunch of motorcycles that are parked in an abandoned lot down the street from the courthouse. They wouldn’t have been visible to someone just walking into the building, but we’d had to circle the block to find parking.

“Coincidence?” I ask though I know how unlikely that is. “A lot of people in Newark ride bikes.”

“You willing to bet your life on that?”

I don’t like the reminder of how quickly things have escalated. Two days ago I was a normal college student whose biggest worry was studying for finals and making plans for Christmas vacation.

“Tell me what to do.”

Leo takes a minute to look up and down the street, his gaze carefully assessing. Every part of his body screams vigilance. From the coiled muscles in his legs to the way his hands slide down off the steering wheel and under his jacket. He's likely adjusting the weapon that I know is holstered somewhere on his body.