Angel smiles, takes another sip, but then her smile slowly falls as I assume she remembers her sour mood. It’s tough being a teenager, I don’t think someone could pay me enough to return to that time of my life.
I take a big breath and try to parse through the words I want to tell her, the assurances I wish I had then.
“When I was your age, I was really. . .angry,” I start. “But when guys said stupid shit, I would beat them up and get suspended, and then your grandma would ground me for a week, and sometimes that made me even more mad, because I felt like maybe they didn’t know how hard it was to be in high school.”
Angel nods like she might know what I mean and agree with me.
“It’s okay to get mad. People are annoying sometimes,” I admit, and Angel snorts. “And crying is okay, too. It’s okay to feel things.”
“You sound like Mom.”
“Yeah, well,” I smirk. “She is a lawyer, so. She’s pretty smart.”
I’m not the best at consoling, probably because people don’t usually turn to me with their emotional woes. Not many people would say that I have particularly good coping skills, but then again, not many people know how quickly my brain summersaults from one horrifying what-if to another. So, I probably have more to contribute on the topic of managing emotions than they think.
I spin my wedding ring on my finger. “Sometimes when I’m feeling really overwhelmed and I don’t know what to do with my feelings, I run. Or hit something. Or I convince Nate to fight with me so I can hit him.”
She rolls her eyes, smiling, and my heart squeezes. I used to think I hated kids, but then these two came to be. If every kid was like them, they wouldn’t get such a bad rep.
“Dad says starting this summer we need to start learning how to fight.”
I nod, having been involved in those conversations. Like Vanessa, I was in the camp of keeping these two as far away from fighting as possible, but the safest thing for them isn’t keeping them in the dark.
“How do you feel about that?” I ask.
She thinks about it, chewing on her bottom lip, just like her mom does when she’s thinking, just like all of the Morelli girls do.
“I want to get good at fighting. In case something like what happened to Aunt Ness happens again.” Her chin wobbles a little, the memory still too tender. We were all betrayed by Cillian, but the kids were the most blindsided by the wholeordeal. They got a much abridged version of the events, leaving out some key details. For instance they know their uncle Cillian died, not that Nate shot him through the brain. They know that he was trying to force Vanessa to marry him so that he could take her company, not that this company is also tied to a massive crime conglomerate. This was their first foray into the truth that their families are . . .well, criminals.
“I want to learn,” she says decidedly, braver than she knows.
I drain the rest of my juice and set the glass down on the counter with a clack against the stone. “Should we start today?”
Angel gives her big grin this time.
30
MARY
At some pointin the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of the bathroom door softly clicking shut and a light switch being flipped on before sink water starts running. The cat meows on the other side of the door, the same way she does when Maxim comes home later than she deems reasonable.
“I know, I know,” I hear him mutter softly, like he’s assuring an upset child.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and slide my arm across the cool bedding, ensuring that it’s still cold. Maxim wasn’t here when I went to sleep, the last sign of life was a text from Sasha that said “making rounds”.
Maxim isn’t much of a texter, and I loathe to admit that when he’s not around, I worry. It’s not that he can’t take care of himself, but we were attacked in broad daylight in the middle of a restaurant, so it serves to reason he might be in significantly more danger at night in one of his clubs. Particularly the ones below board.
A couple of weeks ago I asked Sasha if he’d give me updates sometimes, little check ins, and then I told him I’d break his fingers if he told Maxim I asked. So far as I know, he hasn’t toldhim, and on the rare occasion Maxim isn’t here reading in bed next to me, I get a text from Sasha assuring me that they’re fine.
I hear a noisy clatter and a string of Russian curses from behind the bathroom door. I climb out of bed, dizzy for only a second before I push the door open without knocking.
My mouth falls open at the sight I’m met with, first the too-bright bathroom light, then the fuckingblood.
I take in the spots of crimson on the tile floor and counter, and then his strong back as he leans over the sink, his palms on the counter as if holding him up. In the mirror, I find him looking at me with a cloth pressed to his head. Beneath it, blood stains his face, neck, and across the chest of his white tank top.
Greta is on the ground, still meowing, and looking as concerned as I suddenly feel.
“What happened?” I demand, rushing toward him.
