“Give me a paper. And something to write with,” Harvey told him.
Bryce slid him the ledger, and Harvey’s hand quivered as he accepted the ballpoint pen.I have,Harvey started, but once he tried to write “Harrison Augustine’s omerta,” his arm froze, letting ink bleed a splotch into the paper.
“Are you all right, Harvey?” Bryce asked uncertainly.
“No,” Harvey gritted. He threw down the pen and dug his nails into his armrests. Bryce knew how omertas worked. Harvey would make him understand. “I have...” Harvey choked, his eyes watering. “I have...”
Bryce’s already pale face drained to a sickly shade of white. “No... No, that can’t be possible. She’s dead.”
It was no surprise to Harvey that Vianca still haunted Bryce, and Harvey shook his head.
“The night at St. Morse, Vianca was going to kill you. You knew—she told you, and you told me. I had to do something.”But maybe I shouldn’t have. “He was going to wait to kill her, but then you would’ve been dead. I convinced him not to wait.”
He’d been kind about it, too, Harvey recalled. Harrison had comforted Harvey when he’d stumbled in, shaken, and nearly weeped at the thought of his friend gone. Harrison’s interest in Harvey’s talent, his offer to ensure Bryce’s survival, had relieved Harvey. Thank everything he was useful. Thank everything he could save him. Harvey had sagged his shoulders, sighed out all of his fear, and agreed gladly.
Bryce closed his eyes, like he’d rather not look at his friend. “You should never have done that.”
“You would’vedied,” Harvey said, arguing against the very thought he’d had himself.
“But you know what it was like for me having Vianca’s o-omerta.” Bryce still stumbled over the word, as though a habit. “You were there for all of it.” Bryce’s voice rose, making Harvey tremble and hug his arms around himself. He hated to be yelled at, and he was vulnerable right now—without any armor, without any strength. “Rebecca isdyingbecause of how hard I tried to escape Vianca, and you just volunteered for this?”
“Do you want me to apologize for saving you?” Harvey choked.
“Muck, Harvey.” Bryce stood up and slammed his fist on the table, and for a wild, panicked moment, Harvey thought Bryce might reach across and strike him. Instead, Bryce collapsed into his seat, like a paper doll folding into itself. “I don’t know how to be grateful when I wish you hadn’t done this.”
Minutes passed, and Harvey’s dark thoughts circled a shameful drain of their own.
As a child, Harvey had thought the Gabbiano talent was charm, and he’d liked it. His smile was infectious. It made strangers grin back, happy to perform favors, happy to do whatever he asked.
With that smile and those curls,his mother had once said, kissing him on both cheeks,how could anyone say no?
It wasn’t until he grew older that he realized the insidious truth about his family, how they twisted their smiles, twisted the Faith.
And so he’d left. That might’ve made him alone, but at least he wasn’t complicit.
Leaving Bryce should’ve been easy, since Harvey had done the same before. But now Harvey knew what alone felt like. He knew how it hurt to betray people you loved, how it hurt for them to hate you.
That was why it’d been easier to stay in theHer Forgotten Historiesoffice when it burned. Because he knew how it would feel to do otherwise, and because he was not okay. He would never be okay.
“How much did you tell Harrison?” Bryce asked him. When Harvey couldn’t bring himself to respond, Bryce said, flatly, “Everything. You told him everything.”
Harvey swallowed and nodded.
“Harrison, Pup, Fenice, the Mizer...they’re all working against me. You and Rebecca—you’re the only ones I’ve been able to count on. But how can I trust you when you work for him?”
Panic clawed up Harvey’s throat, making his own saliva taste sour. He shouldn’t have confided in Bryce. Shouldn’t have taken Harrison’s omerta. Shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have. He wished desperately that life came with a do-over. Maybe if he’d never met Bryce—but no, then he would’ve been truly alone.
“O-of course you can trust me,” Harvey sputtered. “I’d do anything—”
“I know,” Bryce murmured, pain etched into the lines on his face. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—it isn’t fair. But I can’t let you stay here, if you’re tied to him. I can’t keep you close to me. You must understand. I’ve been working on this game for—”
“You’re making me leave?” Harvey asked, standing up, his fists clenched at his sides. Maybe he did have some strength left.
“I don’t want to. This is obviously the last thing that I want—”
“You can’t! I work here! Ilivehere!”
When Bryce didn’t respond, only sunk lower into his seat, Harvey felt his weeks of despair writhe inside of him, a beast unsheathing its claws and baring its teeth. His rage made his own vision red.
