“That’s right, you can’t stand that for once I hurt you the way you hurt me every time things get too serious and you run off to be with someone else.”
I feel like an intruder on this conversation and I wish there was a way out, because fuck if this isn’t too intense for other eyes and ears.
"You know how things work between us,” Maximo bites out, his voice slightly different, a little more hesitant but just as angry.
“Yeah, well maybe I don’t want it to work like that anymore,” Enzo says.
Complete silence for...
One.
Two.
Three.
Four-
Maximo flies across the room and I scream, tumbling onto my bed as I try to back away from them. He slams Enzo into the wall, one hand around his throat as the other presses a gun to his temple. Enzo stares into his eyes as if he isn’t about to blow his brains out onto the wall we just fucked against.
“You think you have a choice?” Maximo hisses out. “You don’t change the rules. I decide how this thing goes between us and I told you from the start, you belong to me. I tell you who you can and can’t fuck, you don’t make those decisions. I tell you who the fuck owns your heart. You don’t like that? I can just simply make that same heart stop beating and solve this problem once and for all.”
I remain as still as possible on the bed, not wanting to draw attention to myself. If Maximo is threatening to shoot Enzo, then he sure as fuck want have any qualms about doing the same to me.
Attempted murder by one Costa is enough for me this month, I’d rather not make it two.
My bedroom door slams open and my eyes go wide. As if he knew I was thinking of him, Giovanni is standing in the doorway. Vito stands just behind him. They’ve both seen better days, their suits out of place, Vito’s hair falling out of its ponytail, and Giovanni’s eye sporting a black bruise.
“Maximo,” Giovanni says shortly, slowly approaching his brother. His steps are measured and he doesn't draw too close, acting as if he’s walking along a minefield.
In a way, he is.
Maximo doesn’t move an inch, keeping the gun pressed right against Enzo’s head. His hand clenches around the handle.
Vito moves in my direction, his steps nearly soundless. He looks me over from head to toe as if checking to make sure that I’m okay. His eyes move back over to the scene I’m sure is about to be more tragic than Romeo and Juliet.
His muscles tense up.
He doesn’t give me the option of trying to walk out of here, instead scooping me up in his arms and into his chest. He doesn’t linger or try to help Giovanni settle his brother, hustling me out of the room.
“Maximo, this isn’t what you want to do, brother,” is the last thing I hear, Giovanni’s voice more careful than I’ve ever heard it.
It’s a sharp contrast to the shot that rings through the house next.