16
Brando
Mitch was working on a bike in his shop when I walked in.
My wife felt things, but even I could have predicted this meeting was going to go something like this: He said. I said. At the end of the conversation, we were probably going to go our separate ways.
Time had changed who we were to each other. Mitch had allowed Luca to be the catalyst of that change. And instead of telling me how he fucking felt, he was letting it fester, and it was poisoning the last healthy blood between us.
Yeah, part of that was me too. I was doing the same thing. We both had our issues and were keeping them close.
“Fausti,” he said, nodding at me.
“Lewis,” I said, returning it.
He wiped his grease-stained hand on a handkerchief, but then did the same to the one around his head. Sweat saturated the material, making it seem black, even though it was blue.
He kept working as I stood across from him.
“You were my first friend, Fausti,” he said, eyes on his work instead of me. “I thought we’d be brothers to the grave.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
His eyes lifted at that, meeting mine for a brief second, before they returned to the part he was installing. “What happens between us is one thing, but what happens with my kids is another. My son went to you instead of me—and you fucking hid that from me.”
“Hid,” I said, a mirthless grin coming to my face.
“Yeah,hid,” he said, being a smart ass by spelling the fucking word after. “I would have told you.”
“It wasn’t my place,” I said. “He’s old enough to make the decision to get married. He’s old enough to tell his parents.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “But he didn’t, so I thought the man who is supposed to be my brother would act like it and tell me.”
I wasn’t about all thishe saidshit. He wanted to talk to someone about this, he needed to go back to his son. This wasn’t truly about Peter, though, but about us.
Where we stood.
He stood abruptly, opening his arms in a WTF gesture when I snatched the piece in his hand.
“Brothers, ah? Seems the meaning of that word depends on who is giving the definition.”
“You can’t break away from it, man,” he said. “You’ve turned into Luca Fausti—and his rules don’t apply to me or mine.”
“I understand that, Sam Lewis,” I said, going low enough to call him by his father’s name. “You have rules, too, and it seems our lines can’t fucking cross anymore.”
He hesitated for a second before he blew out a weighty breath. “You and Scarlett…you’re dangerous together. Always have been. Her dancing. Your family. People get hurt when they get too close. Violet’s right. We couldn’t see it until we were out of it, and this isn’t our lives anymore. We’re going back to New York. So, a word of advice before I go, Fausti. Go back to Italy. This place doesn’t fit anymore—it doesn’t fit us, and it sure the fuck doesn’t fit you and Scarlett.”
Ah, there was the truth he’d been stewing on.
“Fuck you, Lewis.” There was my truth, and as always, I meant it.
He caught the piece before it hit him in the chest. He said nothing as I left.
Even though my feelings toward Mitch had changed some, because he’d hurt me by keeping his distance, I still considered him a brother, and his kids family. My wife loved them. We both hated to see Peter make a mistake.
The Jones women were known for using their pussies as a steel trap. Letting go wasn’t something that applied to their logics— boiling pet bunnies were—when their minds were made up.
Crossing myself, I gave silent thanks for not touching that with a ten-foot pole. I hoped Peter would wise up and take the advice we’d given him—because I was close to through with his parents. I had always carried this logic with me through my life:if you’re not for me, you’re against me, and that was where we stood.
