Eyebrows go up at me, but he doesn’t say a word. Just takes the bottle from in front of me. He refills his own glass before he begins to eat.
“I don’t usually drink wine because I don’t like it. It usually tastes like I’m sucking on the wood from the barrel or something. I’ve never tasted wine this good before.” He shakes his head. “What? Not everyone can afford hundred-dollar bottles of wine.”
“It’s thirty-four dollars.” My eyes go wide. “It’s a pinot noir, it’s made with black grapes. It’s not wood you don’t like it’s the tannins from the grapes. Black grapes have less tannins and a stronger fruit of plums, cherries, and strawberries. You could probably get a bottle that tastes as good at ten dollars.”
I shrug, “I’m not usually one for wine anyway. I was too afraid I’d wind up a drunk like my mother.” I can’t hold in a sigh as I chew the stuffed shell. “This is so good. What Lisa said is true—you’re good at everything.”
A small shake of his head. “I didn’t make this. My housekeeper did. This is my sauce, though. I make some up every Sunday and she and I use it throughout the week.”
Glancing around the kitchen again, “So does she live-in? Is it just you in this house?”
A nod. “Just me. This was my parent’s home. I grew up here. My hope was...” He shrugs as he takes a sip of his wine.
Wonder goes through me. I recognize the flicker of yearning. “You wanted a big family.”
He hesitates before nodding. “Yes.”
I remember the article on his wife’s death. It was an accidental overdose of pain pills. A year later, he lost his son. “Your wife didn’t or couldn’t?”
Another sip of his wine as he studies me. “Wouldn’t.”
One word, yet it’s filled with so much pain, anger, frustration. I’m at once jealous and angry toward a dead woman. “I’m sorry.”
Leaning back, he studies me. “You really are.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your hatred of me, for one.”
I blink fast. Where did that go? All of the hate that burned through me, filled me up until sometimes I felt like I was going to choke on it. How had it disappeared so quickly? Searching for it inside me, I can’t find it. There isn’t even a residue of it lingering.
Our eyes meet, and he sees my confusion. “If you had managed to kill me, my men and son wouldn’t have let you get far. But if by some random chance you had, you would have offed yourself within about thirty days. You wouldn’t have been able to live with what you had done, killing someone. It would have become a poison in your blood, eating at you from the inside out.”
Throwing back the last of the wine, I struggle to swallow it down. He was right. And now I get his question of whether or not I was trying to get him to kill me.
It appears without me ever seeing him reach for it. It’s a tiny clear Ziploc filled with a white powder. Setting it down on the table, he slowly slides it across to me. “It's uncut heroin. I make it up nice and neat and sweet and put it into your vein. You’ll have the highest high you've ever known in your life. Once you close your eyes, you never wake up again.”
I want the rest of the bottle of wine. My eyes flick to it as I blink to keep the tears from running over. The tiny bag is within reach, the bottle isn’t.
His long elegant hands are steepled in front of him. “Despite what you think, I don't take responsibility for Danny or your crazy mother. None of that had anything to do with me. Whether I existed, or not, your mom would have always hurt you. Because she was in pain and needed somebody else to feel the pain she was going through. Your husband cheating on you, you losing two babies. It had nothing to do with me. I don't take any responsibility for the pain in your life. Apparently, neither do you. But what I can do is make your last moments as good as I can. I'm willing to give that to you.”
Closing my eyes, I will the tears not to fall. I breathe deep, once, twice. I lose track of time. Stevie Ray Vaughan is stranded and caught in a crossfire. I’m stranded in a hell of my own making. Tony is offering me a way out without getting burned. Without pain. The tears are gone. I open my eyes and look at the small bag. I pick it up. It’s maybe two inches by two inches.
I put it down on the table, and I slide it across to him. “No. Somebody said that death should be easy because life is hard. I appreciate the offer. But if you’re going to kill me, I'm going to make it hard on you.”
A bitter laugh wells up out of me. “And maybe it won't be hard for someone like you. What? It will take five seconds to pull out the gun and pull the trigger. Will you even think of it for as long as it takes? By the time my body hits the floor, will you already have forgotten me? How many people have you killed? I’m curious. Do you know? Or do they all just blend together?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. I reach out and grab the bottle. I don’t even bother with a glass; I drink from the bottle. When I’m done, I use it to point at him.
“I'm not going to make it easy on you. Because when I thought of killing you, despite what you think—it was never easy on me. Not for a single second. I know killing you doesn't solve any problems in this world, let alone mine. Now. I know it wasn't your fault Danny killed himself. I know it wasn't your fault my mom hurt me. I’m pretty sure I always knew none of it was your fault. I made it your fault because it was easier than admitting what my mom was, what Danny was, what my father was.”
I take another
swig of the wine. For a moment, my head swims as the alcohol hits me. Damn, it’s gone.
Fuck, where did the tears come from? Fuck it, there’s no coming back from them now. “You were this big, strong, powerful, completely untouchable thing. You were everything I wanted to be but knew I never could be. And I resented the fuck out of you for it. I wanted to make somebody pay for all the pain. Almost twenty years later and you were still free from all the pain. You were still this formidable, powerful, thing and I still wasn’t. It made me angrier than it did when I was ten years old.”
I slam the bottle on the table. “But I know it's wrong. Now. I get it. Killing you would be the same thing as killing me. And I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I don’t want to die. It would be easier. Easier for you and me. If you were to let me walk out the front door. I have no idea how I’ll get through tomorrow or the day after that. But I know I want to figure it out. I don’t want to kill you. It was never you I wanted to kill. I’m not sure why I couldn’t figure it out until today.”