"You haven't answered my last one," I say. “Why do you care about what happens at those auctions?”
"It makes me feel better about the kind of life I live," he says. "Knowing that I'm contributing something good to the world makes it easier for me to sleep at night. Is that enough explanation for you?"
He's being honest, but I have a feeling there's more to the story.
"How did you get into this life, Dante?" I ask. "You weren't born into it, which means that you chose it."
"It was chosen for me," he corrects.
"How so?"
He's looking at me, but his eyes seem lost in time.
“Twenty-five years of service for the names,” he says. "That was the deal."
"I don't follow," I say.
“I was searching for answers when I found Don Savastano,” he says. “He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. I rose up the ranks until I became the one he trusted most. I did everything he asked me to, and it’s all because he knew the names of the two people who killed my parents.”
He's quiet for a moment.
I don't know if he realizes it, but he's holding me tighter than he was before.
I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to kiss the space between his eyebrows until the agitated crease fades away. But I only watch him, not knowing what to say.
I didn't think his truth would be this heavy.
“One of them was the killer, and the other was the man who gave the order," he says. "It was about borrowed money that hadn't been paid back in time. They didn't show any mercy. Don Savastano gave me the name of the killer, but he’ll give me the name of the boss after twenty-five years of service. That was our arrangement.”
It seems like everything in this world is an arrangement. Nothing is done out of love or kindness.
"How many years do you have left?" I ask.
“Five more," he says. “I thought I could find him on my own, but his gang is no longer active.”
I can’t stop thinking about the younger version of him. He was only a child when he lost everything. He must have felt so alone in the world.
I trace the line of his eyebrow. He melts into my touch, relaxing a little more.
He has magnificent eyebrows. They're regal and proud. Like everything else about him.
"It must have been hard for you to bend and conform," I say. "This isn't an easy life."
"I've made my peace with it," he says. “Life as a criminal has a way of changing you, though. It makes your morals shift, blurring the lines between right and wrong."
"Why are you trying so hard to convince me you're a bad person?" I ask.
His eyes dip to my lips. "You wanted honesty. I'm giving it to you."
"You can't help the circumstances that life throws at you," I say. "But the way you react to these events is what defines you as a man. And for what it's worth, I think you're an honorable man."
"I can promise you that there's not a single thought in my head that's honorable right now," he says, his fingers flexing over my hips. There's that switch in his accent again.
"You're not from here, are you?" I ask. "Where did you grow up?"
He hesitates, but only for a moment. "London."
"A London boy," I say. "Fancy."
