More gunshots ring out suddenly, muffled but still audible. Someone screams in the distance, and sirens start wailing in the air. This conversation will have to wait.
Slava releases my hand, and then the gun is in his hand again. "Go home, Ms. Creminelli. We’ll talk about this first thing in the morning."
He holds my gaze for a long, terrible moment. And then he taps the gun against my chest with every word.
"Don't be late."
And before I can respond, he turns and walks back into the chaos, and I’m left standing there with his blood still warm onmy hands, wondering if I just gave him a reason to look at me closely enough to destroy.
3
BELLA
My best friendLydia is on the couch, binge-watchingLove is Blindwith the volume turned all the way down when I walk in.
She turns to me with a smile, and that smile instantly dies the moment she sees me.
"JesusChrist, Bella."
She's on her feet before I can say a word. Her hands cup my face, and tilt it toward the lamp as she gets a better look at me.
"There's blood on your hands. There's blood on yourclothes. What happened? Are you hurt?" The questions come faster than I can respond. Not that I have the energy to respond even if I want to. “Did someone?—"
"I'm okay," I say. "Lydia, I'm?—"
But I stop myself before the next word comes to my mouth. Because what exactly am I supposed to say? That I’mfine?
That I didn’t just survive a shooting? That I didn’t just see someone get killed in front of me? That I wasn’t saved by a man whom I’ve been violently having fantasies about all night?
A man, mind you, that I’m supposed to be destroying.
But as my thumb makes a tiny circle around the key still in my hands, I can’t help but notice that the blood on my fingers—Slava’s blood—has dried to rust.
Lydia stares at me, waiting for an answer. When I don’t say anything, she takes a step back, knowing that no amount of coaxing will get the answer out of me.
She’s known that ever since she left her mother’s house at seventeen and walked into ours. And she’s known that ever since the day I inadvertently set in motion all of the events that got me to where I am right now.
“How’s Anthony?” I finally ask.
"Sleeping like an angel. Has been since eight." Lydia's voice softens.
"I need to see him."
"Bella, he’s alright. You’re the one who’s?—"
"Just for a second.” I put my hand up to stop her. “And then we can talk."
She doesn't stop me.
I walk down the hallway, shoes still on because I’m still in a half-dazed shock, until I reach the slightly open door of Anthony’s room. Lydia knows he likes it that way, because the hallway light can find him if he wakes up scared.
I nudge it open another inch wider, and let out a slow sigh of relief when I see his little body sprawled across the mattress the way only six-year-olds can manage. One arm is flung over his head and the other clutches a stuffed dinosaur that's seen better days. His dark hair is a mess against the pillow. His mouth is slightly open.
He looks so much like Luca. And tonight, I almost left him alone in the world when I’m all he’s got. I pull back from the door, close my eyes, and ball my hands into fists.
He could’ve woken up tomorrow morning to Lydia telling him that his last family member never came home.
But you’re still alive. You came home,I tell myself. And then, almost immediately, a tiny voice adds:
