Deep (Pagano Family #4)(27)

“I’ve only ever told people I trusted.”

“So trust me.”

She wasn’t so far gone for him that she didn’t see the absurdity in that statement. “Why should I? You’re holding me against my will.”

“Aren’t you trusting me with your life, then?”

She laughed and then grunted at the sharp twinge that followed. “God. You know how twisted that sounds? I don’t have a choice. You took my choice away.”

“I didn’t drag you to my table last night.”

“So, what—I wanted a night with you, and now we’re stuck together?”

“Is that all you wanted? Tell me about your scars, Beverly.”

His dogged return to that single demand was wearing her down. But not enough to tell him the story. “It’s old news. I had a rough time as a kid. It got to be too much. I thought it was too much.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen. It was literally more than half my life ago. I’m not that girl. Are you the same person you were when you were fifteen—however long ago that was?”

“Thirty years. And no.”

“Good. Can we stop talking about it now?”

He didn’t answer in the affirmative or otherwise. He stared at her, still unmoving, his hand holding his glass of scotch on the arm of the sofa. Then he drank it down. “Why feathers?”

“What?” Maybe it was the concussion, or waking up from a Percocet sleep, or maybe this conversation was just strange, but she felt two steps behind.

“Your ink.” He nodded at her arm. “Why feathers?”

Oh. That answer she gave him, free of evasion. She looked down at her wrist. She loved these feathers. They gave her strength. “When I did it, I felt crushed by the weight of everything that was wrong. The feathers remind me that we choose the weight of the problems on our shoulders. Now I choose not to let my problems weigh me down.” A philosophy she would do well to remember right now.

He smiled, and this one was real. Again, his face transformed, and he was Good Nick, with lively green eyes and a perfect mouth. “That’s a great answer.”

Some of her petulance from earlier reared up. “Do I get a gold star, or something?”

He didn’t lose that smile, but he cocked his head, squinting at her slightly. “Do you understand why you can’t tell people what’s going on?”

“I think I understand enough. You’re a mobster, or a Mafioso, or whatever you call yourselves, and you want to be able to handle the problem yourself. You don’t want people to have anything to tell cops or whoever asks.”

“I’m a Pagano. That’s what we call ourselves. And yeah, we have secrets. I need you to keep ours. Can I trust you to do that?”

“My feelings about the police are ambivalent. So yes. I’ll keep your secrets. I’m not sure what I even know.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just say nothing. To anyone. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Can I go home?”

“In the morning. You’re still not safe, so I’m keeping a watch on you. And I want you to stay in your apartment, or mine, until I say otherwise. But in the morning, when Donnie’s back, if you want, you can go back to your place.”

“I want.” She almost thanked him, but pulled the words back. She was not about to thank her captor for releasing her. “I’m going back to bed.”

He nodded. “Good night, bella. Your pills are on the counter, if you need them.”

She did, but she walked past them anyway.





7



As Nick stepped onto the front porch, Uncle Ben’s front door opened, and Sal, one of the soldiers on guard, moved aside.

“Morning, boss.”

Nick stepped into the foyer. “Sal.”

Aunt Angie came into the main hall, wiping her hands on a towel. “Nicky!” She tossed the towel onto her shoulder and hurried forward, her arms out. “How are you, carino?”

“I’m good, Auntie. I didn’t get hurt.” He let his aunt hug him hard. Angie was tall for a woman, taller than Uncle Ben with her heeled shoes, but she still pulled Nick down so she could get her arms around his neck. She had been a glamorously beautiful young woman and had aged into stately handsomeness as she approached eighty.

She clutched his shoulders and leaned back, then grabbed his cheek in one hand and gave it a hard, pinching shake. Nick closed his eyes and withstood this painful affection he’d been assaulted with his entire life. “Still. What kind of man does such a thing? Blowing up your car. This is America!” She let his cheek go with a slap. “Come, have an espresso. Your uncle isn’t down yet. This is early for him, you know.”

When she turned and headed back down the hall toward her palatial kitchen, Nick followed, rubbing his cheek. Italian women and their brutal affections.

He sat at the marble counter, and Angie poured him a small cup of strong, dark espresso. “How is Brian?”

“Good. Healing well. We’re bringing him home tonight.”

Her carefully-groomed eyebrows arched up. “So soon? It’s only a few days.”

“Hospitals get you home as fast as possible. And he’s safer at home.”

As if she saw the sense in that, she nodded. Then she got a sharp look in her hazel eyes. “And what of this girl who was with you? I saw the picture that’s all over the news. That wasn’t Vanessa you were kissing.”