Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(31)
It’s nice just to feel something, even if that something is pain.
My gaze drifts out toward the river just a handful of blocks away. Massive housing projects block most of the view from here, but sitting on the ledge, right in this spot, I can see a sliver of the dark water between the buildings, and beyond that, the skyline of Brooklyn.
Just a moment passes before I hear the noise coming from my apartment, the sound of footsteps on the ladder leading to the roof behind me. I don’t turn to look, listening as he comes near. He’s not trying to go unnoticed, not sneaking around, but his approach is reserved, more casual than determined.
I don’t know what he wants.
I don’t know why he’s still here.
But I don’t have it in me to ask, either.
What does it matter?
The icy wild blasts me with his unique scent as he props himself against the ledge beside me. I cut my eyes his way when he sniffles, rubbing his busted nose with the back of his hand, the bleeding stopped for the most part. He says nothing at first as he looks out at the city, but his silence isn’t some form of punishment he’s forcing upon me.
No, it’s a rare solace, one I find I’m grateful for.
Eventually, though, he finds his voice. “You should go for the eyes, you know.”
“The eyes?”
He nods. “You break a nose, they’ll recover once the adrenaline kicks in, but you take an eye out and they’re f*cked. They can’t catch you if they can’t find you.”
Huh. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Chapter Ten
The pink nightgown had always been the little girl’s favorite. Ruffled short sleeves, soft cotton, with a big bow on the front of it. Her mother told her she was a beautiful princess whenever she wore it, and she had felt that way.
But as the little girl sat in the Tin Man’s den, perched in a black leather chair way too big for her small body, she felt kind of like Cinderella before she went to the ball, the one with the wicked stepmother, except the little girl had a Papa.
She didn’t like the new nightgown he’d given her. It was white and made her skin itchy. She kept scratching... and scratching... and scratching. Ugh. She stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace as it ate up what was left of the pink fabric.
“Why couldn’t I keep it?” she asked quietly, looking to the Tin Man sitting in the identical chair beside her, a small table separating the two of them.
He plucked a glass off of that table, filled almost to the top with a clear liquid. It looked like water, but he grimaced when he drank it, which told the little girl it might’ve been something different.
“It stunk,” he said, his voice lazy, words slurring. He slouched, long legs spread out, his knee constantly moving.
“You couldn’t clean it?” she asked.
He took another drink before casting a flat look her way, no humor in his watery, bloodshot eyes. “It stunk like your mother.”
The little girl still didn’t understand. Her mother always smelled so pretty.
“But if we washed it—”
“Enough!” His voice was sharp as he slammed the glass down on the table, spilling some out, sloshing it onto his skin. He shook his hand angrily, a sprinkle splashing the little girl as he waved toward the fire. “It is gone, kitten. Ash. You cannot have it back. It is not worth your tears and neither is she, so stop crying. Do you hear me? Stop crying!”
She wasn’t crying, not right then, but as he screamed those words, tears streamed down his cheeks. Picking up the glass again, he hauled his arm back, flinging it across the room, shattering it in the fireplace.
The little girl tried to slink away as the flames roared. The Tin Man ran his hands down his face, wiping away his tears. Growling, he stood, his hands clenched. In a rage, he beat himself in the chest with his fist as he snarled, “Stop this, right now! Stop it!”
She whimpered, his anger scaring her, the sound drawing his attention. The Tin Man turned her way, flexing his fingers. “Go to your room. I cannot deal with you... not while I am still grieving her.”
The little girl got up, running from the room, wanting out of his sight before her own tears started to fall. As soon as she was in the hallway, she heard him scream, just like she’d heard that night a week ago. Except, he was alone now. Her mother wasn’t there for him to turn his anger into pain.
Her mother was gone.
But where?
Chapter Eleven
My stepfather, Edoardo Accardi, ex-enforcer for the now extinct Genova crime family (you’re welcome for that, by the way), had a certain flair for theatrics. The man had a way of talking, of saying things, like he was always standing on a stage in a one-man show of his own f*cked-up production, and most of the time, only one person sat in his audience: yours truly. It wasn’t voluntary, I can tell you that much. No, the man targeted his monologues right at me, assaulting me with the words just as hard as he used to batter me with his fists. This is for your own good, Lorenzo, he’d say. Toughen up. Stop crying. Don’t beg. Be a man, goddamn it. Be a f*cking man! Never mind the fact that I’d been just a boy at the time… a boy who couldn’t understand how beating me unconscious was for my own good… a boy who heard nothing but riddles whenever the man spoke.