“Only the guards. Prime came out a little after I got back.”
“It’s strange, Mrs. Spadaro. I’ll admit that Frankie has a lot of enemies and he’s not the most well-liked member of our organization, but to find him dead in that house? Mr. Fontana is not pleased.”
“I’m sorry about him, but I don’t know what happened. We weren’t there for very long.”
Carbone taps his finger against his nose before sitting back. “One more question. You and Prime seem like you get along well.”
I’m surprised by the abrupt shift. “I think so, yes, we do.”
“Your relationship isn’t just a business one anymore, is it?”
I don’t know how to react to that. “What do you mean?”
“The guards said you and him were kissing.” Carbone’s smile slithers across his lips. “It’s not a crime to kiss your husband, Mrs. Spadaro, but it’s interesting. We all believed your marriage to Prime was born of convenience. But perhaps it’s more?”
My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say. What does Carbone want to hear? He seems like the sort of man who appreciates working within the confines of a deal. He probably doesn’t feel much of anything, except maybe the thrill of murdering an enemy. At best, at the very limits of this creature’s emotional range, I have a feeling he’d rip through this household and leave it a bloody, gore-streaked mess, and do it with a faint smile on his face.
I consider lying and trying to come up with the perfect reply, but I can’t begin to imagine what this monster wants from me.
Instead, the truth rushes out.
“Things between us are complicated, Mr. Carbone. I don’t know how I feel about him.”
His brows arch. “You don’t know? Or you don’t want to say?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask desperately.
“Because, Mrs. Spadaro, Prime has brought you into his world. You can see that, can’t you? Before you were kept separate, back when you were nothing more than his personal assistant, but now you know things. You’ve seen things. And I don’t know how much to trust you.”
“I’d never… I mean, I care… I wouldn’t…”
“How do you feel about him, Deanna?” Carbone leans forward. He licks his thin lips and leaves them shining and damp. “What would you do for him? How far would you go? Would you kill for him?”
“I love him!” The words burst from my chest. My heart’s racing wildly and my gaze darts around in a panic like someone might hear. “I’m falling for him, but I’d never kill anyone. I couldn’t! I don’t know what happened to your associate but I had nothing to do with it.”
Carbone sits back and studies me. I fight the urge to whimper and cry, mostly because I think it would only piss him off. Any display of weakness right now would be interpreted as guilt. He steeples his fingers, breathing through his nose, and I want to beg him to stop, beg him to go away from here, to leave my parents alone, to leaveme, alone, but this is what I wanted when I married Prime. This is what I asked for when I walked into that house by my husband’s side, but god, I’m so far out of my depth now, it’s like I’m drowning.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Spadaro.” He stands abruptly. “I know my way out.”
I almost call out and ask him to wait, but I bite down my tongue to punish myself for the impulse. You don’t tell a monster to hold on once they’re walking away. Carbone steps out of the house and the door shuts behind him, and I rush to it, tears streaming down my face as I slam the bolt shut. I collapse to the floor, sobbing into my hands, feeling foolish and small and weak.
And too aware of how close I was to getting everyone I care about killed.
“Excuse me? Miss? Are you alright?”
I wipe my face. Dad’s standing at the foot of the steps, squinting hard like he’s trying to place me and can’t manage it.
“I’m fine. It’s okay, don’t worry.” I know better than to alarm him. Dad can’t handle stress.
I think he’s going to turn toward the kitchen, but he pauses, hesitates, and jolts as if struck. He spins and kneels in front of me, his eyes clear and sharp for the first time in weeks. He takes my hand in his.
“Deanna, it’s going to be okay, honey.” Dad’s voice is calm and steady. He smiles and that’s the smile I’ve always known, the smile that defines him: bright and bold and strong, and even though his hands are thin and his skin is papery, it’s still him down beneath all those failing bones.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I whisper, crying again despite myself. My shoulders shake as he leans in to hug me.
“Oh honey, don’t worry. I’m not sure what you’re upset about, but we’ll talk to Mommy, okay? We’ll straighten it out. We always do, right, Deedee?”
I sob harder. He hasn’t used that nickname for me since I was a little girl. Nostalgia, guilt, sorrow, it crashes into me, and for a few seconds I cling to my father like he’s still the man that can fix cars and throw football and can teach me just about anything I want to learn.
