“Dad locked me up. I can’t talk long. Listen, okay?”
Silence. “Okay.”
“Dad taking me to a party at the Emma Hotel in three days. You know the place?”
“Downtown. Fancy.”
“I need you to be there. We have to talk.”
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t go into detail right now. Three days, the Emma Hotel. Swear you’ll be there, Mal.”
“I swear. I’ll be there.”
“See you soon.”
I hung up. I was sweating and trembling. I stared at the phone and wished I could stay on it longer.
This was the safest place in the house to talk. My father had recording devices all over the place, including my room. I was sure he had my phone bugged, so I couldn’t call Mal from that, and I hadn’t been able to get a burner. Dad’s office was the only place he probably didn’t record, and I doubt he had his own phone watched.
That was it. The best I could do. It was up to Mal then.
I closed my eyes and remembered leaning against him. Sleeping on his massive body. Kissing his cheek. Touching his skin. Stitching him together.
Mal. God, Mal. I missed him so much it hurt. I was so relieved he was still okay—some part of me thought he’d die from that wound—and so shattered by hearing his voice.
I yearned to be near him again.
Mal was the only person in the world that understood me now. He was the only one that saw me for what I was and didn’t blink. He didn’t pity the poor, broken, abused little girl. He wasn’t afraid of all my rage.
He accepted me, and I needed him so much more than I ever realized.
I missed him when he was in prison. I hated myself for that, especially when Carmine was alive. I was going to marry Carmine. I shouldn’t have been interested in Carmine’s best friend instead.
But it was the truth. It’d always been Mal, even though we’d kept apart from each other, like two moons orbiting each other, never getting too close.
There was nothing keeping us apart anymore, and I knew we’d crash in a glorious burst of flame.
Maybe we’d take the world down with us.
I’d settle for killing my father.
I slipped out into the hall. I stood alone, listening. The house was quiet and still. I went back toward the kitchen and headed to the back staircase, but a motion to my left caught my attention.
A light flicked on. A man stood near the far sink, silhouetted by the lamp to his left.
He was dressed in a black shirt and black slacks and had an apron tied loosely around his waist. Dark skin and dark hair. He was older, mid-fifties.
I’d seen him before. He was the head cook. God, the man must’ve been starting his shift already at two in the morning.
“Good evening,” I whispered.
He nodded to me. “Senorita. Can’t sleep?”
“No, sorry.” I hesitated, turned to the steps, but stopped before I left. “Just between us, okay?”
He smiled and nodded. “No worries, senorita. I’m just an old man talking to himself in the night time.”
I smiled and as he winked and began to wash some dishes. I hurried up the steps, heart racing, and slipped back into my room.
If he told anyone, I was dead.
I had to hope he was as nice as he seemed.
Chapter 11
Mal
I wore a black button-down shirt and black dress pants and black running shoes. I looked like a fucking waiter.
Because I was. Never had a real job before. Felt strange.
The ache in my side had steadily gone from a roar to a dull whisper over the last few days. When Cap called, I’d finally decided the wound wouldn’t kill me. Tonight was the first time I felt really mobile.
Not back to myself. Wouldn’t be all the way for a little while. But good enough.
“Mal, man, you’re not gonna do anything stupid tonight, are you?” Hector shifted from foot to foot, looking around the kitchen. The place was a riot of activity. Cooks, catering staff, dishwashers. Men and women swarmed. “I can get fucking killed for letting you in here, man.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, giving his shoulder a nice squeeze. I was a big guy and Hector was only five-foot-seven at most. “I’m not here to make trouble. I won’t even work the floor.” Because I couldn’t. Too many guys out there would recognize my face. It was risk enough to be back in the kitchen at all.
“Shit, yeah, okay, okay.” Hector ran a nervous hand through his black hair. He grinned at me and adjusted his shirt. “You’re good, right? You know how to work a kitchen?”
“No clue.”
“It’s easy. Just go clean dishes. The cooks will yell if you fuck up.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for this.”
“Sure, Mal, sure.” He wriggled out of my grip and hurried off, barking orders at his staff.
He’d been a good customer in my dealing days. Back before I went to prison and Carmine died. There were benefits to selling drugs. I got to know a lot of people with very questionable morals. Not all my customers were bad—in fact, most weren’t. Drugs were strange that way. Never knew who’d fall into them.