The doors opened and a few more rough-looking guys took spots at the end of the bar. I didn’t know them. Cap wasn’t going to show, and I didn’t blame her. Getting involved with me right now was as good as shooting herself in the head. I knew it. She knew it, too. It didn’t change what I had to do.
A long time ago, I’d met Carmine. He’d been a magnet. People had been drawn to him. He’d had one of those laughs. And when you talked, he’d really listened, like he’d given a shit what you had to say. I’d met him on the street when I’d been peddling cheap weed. Some guys had jumped me and tried to steal my stash, but I’d fought them off. Carmine had been impressed. He’d watched the whole thing go down, and when it was done, he’d walked over, punched me in the mouth, and taken all my money.
A week later, I’d found him working a corner nearby. I’d jumped him, beat his friends down, and knocked him on his ass. But instead of getting mad, he’d asked if I’d wanted a job. I’d punched him in the nose and said okay.
That had been Carmine. He’d seen talent in people. I guess he’d seen it in me. From then on, we’d worked together, side by side. Gotten in a lot of scrapes together. Bled on the same streets. Hurt guys. Killed them, too. Through it all, we’d been brothers.
The door opened. I looked over and Cap stepped inside. A few of the rough-looking guys stared at her. I couldn’t blame them. She wore tight, dark jeans and a navy top cut a little too low for a place like this. I felt something in me stir, looking at her breasts, then up her slender neck to her lips, and those eyes, those fucking eyes. Emerald green. Her hair was auburn. Thick and wavy. I wanted to glide my palm through it and pull tight. I wanted to feast on that mouth.
I couldn’t let myself get distracted.
Cap walked over and sat down next to me. “What’re you having?” she asked.
“Beer.”
“Same as always.” She gestured at the bartender, signaling for another drink for me and one for her. He returned with two draft lagers and she paid.
“Didn’t think you’d show up.”
“Yeah? Why’s that? You’re the only one that misses Carmine?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think you were suicidal.”
She laughed. “Is that what you are?”
“That and real angry.”
“Getting yourself killed won’t bring him back.”
“No, but it’ll hurt the people that took him away.”
She held up her beer. “Here’s to Carmine. The only person in the world that could bring you and me together.”
I clinked her glass with mine. “To Carmine.” I took a long drink and sighed. My shoulders slumped forward.
I missed him so much it hurt.
I’d never felt this way before. I’d lost my parents when I’d been young and never grieved them. I’d been better off with them dead or missing. Gran was still alive, and I didn’t know the rest of my family.
We’d lost guys. A few I’d known coming up had got shot. One had been stabbed. Another had undiagnosed diabetes and had died from a lung infection. None of it had bothered me. Those were the risks.
But losing Carmine was like losing a piece of my body.
He’d been my conscience. He’d been the only thing keeping me from succumbing to the darkness I knew stirred deep in my soul.
Now he was gone. And I felt it coming up.
The band played louder. The music was good. I was tempted to ask Cap to dance. She looked damn good in those jeans. She had an ass like a goddess. I wanted to put my hands on her hips and feel her sway. I wanted to watch her sweat. I could smell it already. Sex and desire.
Back before I’d gone to prison, Cap had been Carmine’s future wife. They hadn’t been engaged officially, but their parents had worked it out. Cap had been his, even if she wasn’t exactly. I’d kept my distance from her, even if Carmine had brought us together. Cap and I had been friends, and I’d never have let myself go any further.
I couldn’t help myself anymore. I’d forgotten what she was like since spending a year of my life behind bars. She was soft and pretty. Fucking sexy in a way she didn’t understand. She made my heart race, sitting so close. The sides of our thighs nearly touched.
“So what’s the game, Mal?” She spoke quietly into her drink. “How many names do you have left?”
“Six,” I said, willing myself not to stare at her lips. She was Carmine’s. I could never touch her. Except Carmine was dead.
“Yeah? And who are they?”
“Dario’s gone. There’s Rolando Carmonas and Anthony Cargill. Howard Munoz. Rod Smeary. Clem Woden. And your dad makes seven.”