Mary unscrews the cap and pours a shot’s worth into each glass.
She hands hers to me instead of drinking it herself, and nods at the man across from her to pick his up. He does just that, reluctantly, though, like he’d rather be doing anything else.
“I’m not really drinking these days,” he says, but it’s weak.
“Today you are. For the happy couple,” she says. “To our ever growing family.”
The two men on either side of us lift their glasses, faces grim while they drink theirs. I drink mine too, the burn familiar down my throat. Still, Hugh sits unmoving.
Marianna leans forward, the only sound in this apartment the creaking of the table as she leans her elbows on it. Her asson my thigh is distracting, but the tension is so high in the room that I could drown in it.
“Drink,” she commands, and with a shaking hand, he does. The taste of the vodka seems to offer him some relief, and his shoulders relax slightly as he puts the glass down. He even smiles.
Marianna’s face remains blank.
“You scared me, Shadow. Coming in here acting all crazy.”
Marianna lets out a breathy laugh, and he laughs too, much too loud, before he cuts off with a sharp inhale and a cough.
“You could’ve had a very long, very comfortable life,” Marianna says. “I want you to know that. You really could have.”
“What?” he says, but he’s breathless, and his face is turning red.
“It’s not that hard to fall into line. We ask so little of you, Hugh, and we takesuchgood care of you.”
His hand claws at his chest, pulling the neck of his shirt as if it will offer him any breathing room. Nobody speaks.
My hand tightens on her leg as the man fights for breath across from us.
“Look at me,” she says, but he can’t. She slams a palm on the table. “Look.”
He does, eyes wide, almost bulging from his head.
“You are a weak man, Hugh. I am not a shadow. I am the grim fucking reaper, and this is faster than you deserve.”
The man falls from his chair then, shaking on the ground as the other two men look sadly on. They knew what was coming, knew there was nothing to be done to stop it, but probably have known him most of their lives, and that loss stings, deserved or not.
When his shaking and choking finally comes to an end, the sound of the heater clicking back on radiates through theapartment, and Mary takes a deep breath. My hand on her thigh finally loosens.
I’ve heard rumors of this version of her; the stories of the ruthless shadow of Lorenzo Morelli, a demon in her own right. Seeing it first hand is completely different, it’s sickening and magnetic all at once. She’s impossible to look away from like this, but lethal enough that looking feels like a great danger.
And she is mine.
“Take care of him,” Marianna says to the man next to her as she stands.
“Of course,” he says. She puts a surprisingly gentle hand on the man’s shoulders, and he pats hers in return. They both understand.
Sasha no longer leans casually against the wall, now standing ramrod straight while he watches the scene, his eyebrows low. He looks like I feel: transfixed. Possibly horrified.
Marianna retrieves the cooler and his glass before brushing past and out of the apartment without any theatrics or discussion. When we get back to the little shop, the butcher offers Marianna a serious nod, one that says he knows what he has to do and will make sure he does it. Then he trades coolers with her, replacing hers with an identical one.
“Good to meet you,” Sasha says.
“We’ll be seeing you.” The butcher nods at us, and it’s like a peace offering, a promise that he won’t make the mistake the other man did. He knows what would happen if he did—who would visit him.
When we get in the car, there’s a stony silence as Marianna backs us out of the parking lot and off toward Boston. She clicks on the radio, old jazz playing through the speakers. Sasha speaks first.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side, Mary.”
