“You can’t force me,” she said, then bit her lip, reconsidering.
“I could,” I said with a shrug, then leaned back in my seat, giving her space. “But I won’t.” There was no fun in using my power or force to get what I wanted. Not with Leona. I wanted to conquer her. I wanted many things.
She gripped the door handle, but I put a hand down on her knee. She shivered under my touch but didn’t pull away. Her skin was warm and soft, and I had to suppress the urge to trail my hand up under her skirt and between her legs. “What is it you got to defend yourself?”
She hesitated.
“Believe me, Leona, it doesn’t matter if it’s a knife, gun or Taser. It won’t do any good against me.”
“It’s a knife. A butterfly knife.”
I’d have guessed Taser. Women usually preferred them or pepper spray because it was less personal than having to ram a blade into someone’s flesh. “Have you ever used it?”
“You mean on someone?”
“Of course. I don’t care if you can make a sandwich with it.”
Anger sparked in her blue eyes, and I had to admit that I enjoyed seeing that kind of fire in them, when she’d seemed so docile and sweet the first time I’d talked to her. It promised more fun in other areas.
“Of course not. Unlike you and your mob friends, I don’t enjoy killing people.”
Friends? The mob wasn’t about friendship. It was about dedication and loyalty. It was about honor and commitment. I didn’t have friends. Remo and his brothers were the closest thing to friends I had, but what connected us was stronger. They were like family. My chosen family. I didn’t bother explaining all this to Leona. She wouldn’t have understood. For an outsider, this world wasn’t understandable.
“You don’t have to enjoy killing to be good at it. But I doubt that you’ll ever get the chance to consider killing someone. I think you’d be disarmed in no time and probably get a taste of your own blade. You have to learn how to handle a knife, how to hold it and where to aim.”
“You didn’t deny it,” she whispered.
“Deny what?”
“That you killed people, that you enjoyed it.” I didn’t say that with some people there had been quite a bit of joy in ending their fucking lives. And I knew that killing my father one day would outshine every other kill so far. Leona looked honestly puzzled by my reaction. Had she still not grasped the concept of being a Made Man?
Instead of a reply, I tapped the tattoo on my forearm.
She reached out, fingertips gracing the black lines of ink. Her touch was always so careful. I had never been touched like that by a woman. They usually raked their fingernails over my back, clutched and stroked. There was nothing careful about these encounters. I’d enjoyed it, but this…Fuck, this I enjoyed more.
“Could you get it removed? Could you stop being what you are?”
I didn’t know any other life. The few day when I hadn’t been part of the Outfit and not yet part of the Camorra, before I’d found Remo or rather before he’d found me, I had been like driftwood, caught up in the tide, no destination to my journey. Days that had felt like eternity. I’d been adrift. “I could. But I won’t.” Remo, of course, wouldn’t allow me to quit. This wasn’t a fucking job you could give your two-weeks notice to. This was for life. “You said it, it’s who I am.”
She nodded. Perhaps it had finally sunk in.
“I will teach you how to use that knife and how to defend yourself.”
She looked tired. That was perhaps why she didn’t try to argue even if I could tell that she wanted to. She opened the door and got out. She turned to me. “Sleep tight, Fabiano. If your conscience lets you.” She closed the door and headed toward the apartment building.
When I’d started my induction process in the Outfit, I’d felt guilt over what I’d seen others doing. And even later, when I first started to fight at Remo’s side, I’d felt bad for some of the things I’d done, but now? Not anymore. After years of being an Enforcer, I didn’t feel anything anymore. No regret or guilt. People knew what they were getting into when they owed us money. No one got into this without a fault of their own. And most of these guys would sell their own mother if it meant money to gamble or bet or buy shit.
I’d never had to kill an innocent. There were no innocents in our bars and casinos. They were lost souls. Stupid fuckers who lost their family’s home because they spent their nights gambling.
Leona was innocent. Despair had driven her to work in Roger’s bar. I hoped she’d never get in the crossfire. I didn’t like the idea of having to hurt her.