13. Tasha

13

Burley beckons me downstairs, and my knees wobble all the way, but I heard Matteo's command. Get her to clean up this mess. This feels like digging my own grave. Not only have I witnessed a mob murder, but I bet wiping blood and brains off the floor officially makes me an accomplice.

Burley keeps handing me paper towels to wipe the floor with, and now has an array of chemicals on hand to eliminate any traces on Matteo's fine porcelain tile. Note: tile, singular. At least twelve by twelve feet. It must have cost a fortune. Given that the rest of the apartment has hardwood floors, I can't help the nasty suspicion that this tiled part is intentional. The town square for executions.

Where I only had my vomit on my T-shirt before, I now have droplets of blood splattered where I was careless, caking onto my skin. Thank God I've been sick already. Going at this without gloves is creeping me out. I toss another triple fold of paper towel into the brown yard waste bag Burley pulled out of a kitchen drawer, spray with hydrogen peroxide, wipe, repeat. The whole clean-up proceeds with alarming smoothness, and the one thing that keeps running on repeat in my mind is that this is what will happen to Dad if I don't deliver.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to deliver. Matteo is going to Sicily. Beyond that…

All I know is I'm not going to stand by and watch my own death unfold. I'm not going to be a willing participant to their games. Regardless of what Dad had done, of what his hand was in any of this—if he even had a hand—I have a mind and will of my own. I will fight for my life in every way possible.

Bottom line: I need to kill Matteo before he kills me.

The notion has been brewing in the underbelly of my mind, there where darkness stirs and curls up like smoke to where it manifests in my inner voice. I don't know when or how, but this man will be dead before he can even put a foot on a plane to Sicily.

My knees hurt from being on all fours on the hard tile, but I'm almost done. The apartment is unnaturally quiet, soundproof to the extent that the only thing I hear is Burley's breathing and the crackle of the paper bag he's holding. When the office door opens, my hands tremble in fear. I'm going to have to get a grip. I can't afford to fold like Matteo's brother when he had to pull the trigger. I've always prided myself on my ‘surgeon's hands', never showing the slightest quiver, but now I'm like a conveyer belt in sorting mode.

I don't look up but watch from underneath my lashes as Matteo and his brothers walk past, not a single word between them. I wait for the final goodbye, but it never comes. There's only the echo of the door closing and then Matteo's footsteps as he doesn't sneak up on me but comes to stand with his black Oxford shoes in front of me where I'm still bent over, looking at my reflection in the tile's freshly polished surface.

"Enjoy the fire pit," Matteo says.

"Will do. Sorry about the witness, I—" Burley starts.

"Don't mention it again. If someone doesn't want to listen, someone gets to deal with the consequences."

Whatever you do, don't watch.

Did he hear Burley's command to me? Probably.

Oh God. I'm dead.

I don't move, don't dare to look up as Burley takes his bucket of chemicals, paper bag and towels and walks away. Neither of us moves and the silence between us stretches, but I can feel his eyes on me. I eventually lean back and look up at him.

I watch in fascination as he slowly licks his thumb and reaches for my cheek to wipe at something. Vomit or blood, who cares. His touch is so gentle, it's a caress, hypnotizing in deceptive tenderness.

"See, kitten, this is where things get messy," he says. "And as you've noticed, I don't like messy things."

"No, you don't." I close my eyes against his gentle assault because he hasn't pulled away. Instead, he's cupping my cheek, running his fingers along my temple to gather my uncombed strands behind my ear.

"This is the second time I've had to warn you," he says, his fingers lifting away only to gather more hair from my face. "Already you're making me break Il Consiglio's rules. There'll be no third time."

I nod, and he lets go. I swallow at the bile still in my throat, feeling sick again. A man with this much control is a demon, the devil himself, and who am I to even think I can better him? I swipe at my face, not at tears, but to erase the lingering yearning his touch has left behind. A yearning that reaches way beyond the fingerprints still tingling on my skin.

"Let's clean you up." Matteo holds his hand out to me.

And as if I'm making a pact with the devil, I take it.