Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(82)

“No,” he says, handing the envelope to me, this time letting me grab it. “That’s how much you’re paying me for that orange you just ate.”

“Wait, seriously? An orange costs like a dollar at the store.”

“Well, then, you should’ve gotten one from the store instead of helping yourself to mine, huh?” He takes a step back, tossing his keys at me. “You’re driving.”

I try to catch them but miss, the keys clattering to the sidewalk. As I pick them up, Lorenzo climbs into the passenger seat to wait for me.

This is a terrible idea.

The worst, really.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” I say as I climb behind the wheel. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Have you ever driven before?”

“Yes, but…”

Lorenzo waves me off, silencing me with the flick of his wrist, before saying, “I’m sure you can handle it.”

Sighing, I start the car, hesitating again. “Out of curiosity, on a scale of one-to-ten, how much are you going to want to kill me if I hit something?”

“Just drive the damn car, Scarlet.”

Putting it in gear, I pull away from the curb. It’s not far, from Greenpoint to Lorenzo’s house, but it’s a long enough drive to have me on edge, wound tight by the time I’m parked safely in his driveway.

“For the record, I wouldn’t kill you for crashing my car,” he says, leaning closer to whisper, “I’d just bill you instead.”

Lorenzo goes inside, leaving his phone lying there, not bothering to take the car key back. I sit there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, before grabbing my envelope, tearing it open.

A stack of cash. I count it, stunned that he’s paying me three thousand dollars. I count back through it again, shoving most of it in my pocket, leaving the last thousand in the envelope. I go inside then, the house silent, no sign of Leo or Melody.

Lorenzo is in his library. I almost walk right in but hesitate. He’s standing beside the table, staring down at the puzzle spread out along it. After a moment, he picks up a piece, trying it a few places before it snaps right in.

I tap on the doorframe.

His eyes flicker my way, but he says nothing, so I don’t move, not going any closer.

Lorenzo tries a few more puzzles pieces in silence, finally getting one into place before saying, “I inherited the orange grove from my father.”

“Oh,” I say, for the third time in an hour.

“I was young, around four, when he died. My mother hired a hitman. I don’t remember much, but I was there when it happened. My mother wanted him dead so she’d inherit everything, not knowing he left it all to me instead.”

“Ouch.”

“She managed to get control of the property while I was still a minor, but I was growing up too fast, and she knew they were running out of time.”

I expect him to continue his story, but he grows quiet, simply working on his puzzle. “So what happened?”

“The same guy who killed my father beat me half to death with a shovel before trying to bury me alive. I was sixteen at the time.”

I gape at him. “Your mother hired the hitman to kill you?”

“Didn’t have to hire him,” he says. “She’d married the motherf*cker, so getting rid of the stepson was more like an anniversary present.”

“I, uh… f*ck.”

“Together, they had Pretty Boy, the picture perfect little family with only one thing still standing in their way: me. My eighteenth birthday was approaching, so I knew, sooner or later, he was going to try to kill me again.”

“Did he?”

“Never got the chance. They died on the grove they tried to steal from me, so I guess that means I got the last laugh.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just blurt out the first word that comes to my mind: “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m not sorry.”

He laughs to himself, plopping down in his chair as he regards me. “You can come in.”

Slowly, I stroll into the library, approaching where he’s sitting. I drop the envelope onto his lap. “A thousand bucks.”

He picks it up, pulling out the cash, and shoves it right into his pocket without counting. Crumpling the envelope, he tosses it aside before pulling me down to him.

His lips are soft as he presses them to mine, kissing me gently, sweetly, his tongue exploring my mouth and caressing mine. It doesn’t last long before he’s pushing me back away, creating some distance between us.

“You taste like oranges,” he says, licking his lips. “Good oranges. Not that cheap watery shit from a box.”

“Does that make you want to ravish me?”

“Or else strangle you,” he says. “You walk a thin line.”

I laugh at that as I turn to walk out, not wanting to press my luck any more tonight, and make it to the doorway when his voice calls out.

“Scarlet?”

I glance back at him. “Yes?”

“I should’ve killed you.”

He says that matter-of-fact. There’s no threat to the words, no anger in his voice, just a stark reality that sounds almost sorrowful. He should’ve killed me.