Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(33)

“Yeah, well, in my defense, I was only fourteen at the time, so I had no idea what I was getting into. I was convinced that all I needed was a ticket to New York City and everything would work out, that someone would take one look at me and think, ‘yep, she’s the one,’ and my life would be perfect.”

“You’ve been on your own since you were fourteen?”

“I ran away when I was fourteen, but I was on my own long before that. I didn’t really have anything here, you know, but I had even less there. At least here I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do, to be whoever I wanted to be. I figured whatever trouble I got into in the city would pale in comparison to what I went through before.” Frowning, her voice is quiet as she adds, “Turns out I was wrong.”

“What trouble did you get into?”

“A guy promised me the world only to destroy my world instead,” she says, cutting her eyes my direction. “Or however you put it.”

“Tough break.”

“Yeah, well, it is what it is. So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your story?”

“I have no story.”

“Everyone has a story.”

I consider that, continuing to smoke, grateful when it starts to warm me up, fending off the bitter cold. The world always feels better when a haze covers it, hiding a little bit of the harsh reality. “I was just a normal guy… normal family, normal life. But I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and saw something I shouldn’t have seen. The mob killed my family, tried to kill me, but I survived, and well… I’ve been gunning for them ever since. Doesn’t matter what I have to do, who I have to kill. I’ll get my revenge.”

“A vigilante? That’s what you’re telling me? Just a guy trying to punish all the bad in the world?”

“Pretty much.”

Rolling her eyes, she swings around, shoving away from the ledge as her feet hit the roof. She comes right at me, pressing up against me, as I let out a stream of smoke, blowing it right into her pale face.

She inhales slowly, glaring at me. “Bullshit.”

I cock an eyebrow at her.

“That’s the Punisher,” she says, “so unless your real name is Frank Castle, that’s not your story.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“I’m calling you a bullshitter.”

A smile slowly spreads across my lips as she backs away, clearly done listening to my bullshit. She’s right, of course. That’s not my story at all, but my story isn’t for the faint of heart, so I keep it to myself. “You’re the first one to ever figure that out.”

“No, I’m just the first one to call you out on it,” she says. “They’re all too afraid to call a spade a spade, but I’ve long ago moved past being scared of people like you. If you don’t want to tell me, fine… don’t tell me. But I don’t have time to play games. You can’t even give me the courtesy of a simple truth. Hell, I don’t even know your name. All I know is that they call you Sc—”

“Don’t say it.” I cut her off, my voice sharp as I drop the joint to the rooftop and smash it out before stepping toward her, surprised when she doesn’t retreat. Brave little soul. “I know what they call me. I don’t need you to remind me.”

“Yeah, well, good for you, I guess,” she says. “I’m glad at least you know who you are.”

I watch her walk toward the entrance back to her apartment, itching to follow her, but my fingertips are tingling and there’s a good chance I might strangle her if I get close enough. She’s annoyed, and maybe she has reason to be, but that doesn’t make her attitude any easier to deal with.

“Lorenzo,” I call out.

Her footsteps falter as she looks back. “What?”

“My name,” I say. “It’s Lorenzo.”

Her eyes scan my face in the darkness, like she’s expecting some sign of deception, but she won’t find it. A simple truth. That’s what she asked for, so that’s what I’m giving her.

“Your turn,” I say. “I want a name.”

“You know my name.”

“Not your name. I want the name of the man who broke you.”

Her gaze shifts to her feet as she kicks at the cold tar-covered rooftop, like she’s avoiding having to answer, before her lips part with a long exhale. “I’m not broken.”

“Save the theatrics, Scarlet. Just give me the man’s name.”

“Kassian Aristov.”

Kassian Aristov.

She blurts it out like she hadn’t meant to tell me, a pained expression crossing her face, full of regret right away. Huh.

The name isn’t one I know, but then again, I don’t make it a habit to remember names. It’s familiar, though, like maybe I’ve heard it before, spoken in passing, and I think I might know why. “Russian, huh? He wouldn’t happen to be one of those Russians, would he? The Organizatsiya?”

She doesn’t answer.

I’ve come to learn lack of a response from her is as good as confirmation. The woman got mixed up with the Russian Mafia.

She walks away, going back down to her apartment. I should leave. Mind your f*cking business, I know, but I can’t help myself.