by Nora Flite
Cap grapples with his companion. "You goddamn idiot!" he roars, struggling until he has the gun wrenched free. Harlow breathes heavily, gawking at Cap in disbelief.
"What are you doing?" Harlow demands.
"Saving our lives," Cap says, spitting on the ground. With a wary look at Marshall, he tucks the weapon into his own belt, waving his empty hands. "I know you're new around here Harlow, but trust me. Never, ever point your gun at that man."
"Why? Who the hell is he?"
"That's the Devil himself," Cap says in a sober voice.
The entire time Marshall hasn't moved. He just stands there like a guardian crafted from my wicked dreams. He doesn't react when Cap grabs my bag, offering it to me where I'm still kneeling. "Here," he grumbles, "Take it. Sorry for, you know."
I clutch it to my stomach. I didn't care about the wallet, that's replaceable. My sketchbook is not.
Both of my attackers back up until they're against the far wall of the alley. "We're going," Cap says. He's trying to sound confident, but there's an edge of fear in his words. He's not sure if Marshall will let them leave.
His voice cuts through the air. "Wait." The two men freeze; Marshall looks directly at me. "Did they hurt you?" he asks.
I shake my head emphatically. "No." I'm nervous if I say anything else that Marshall will turn on them and tear out their throats. I don't want to see that.
Another beat passes. Then Marshall moves sideways, towards me, creating a view of the alley exit. "Get out of here."
Cap and Harlow don't wait around, they sprint so fast that they knock over a trashcan, the lid clattering on the cement long after their footsteps fade. They flee like Satan is at their heels. And maybe he is.
I'm about to find out.
Chapter 12.
Marshall crouches in front of me, his eyes sharp as they search my face. "What were you thinking walking around here in the dark?" he growls.
I blink a few times. "Are you scolding me?" I ask, my anger spiking quick. I jump to my feet, staring down at him where he's still kneeling, a rare moment where I'm taller. "I was going back to your place like you told me to!"
"You should have waited for me."
"Don't give me that! I'm not a child, Marshall."
"This area is dangerous at night!" He runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. "If you wander off alone, I can't protect you, Leona."
"Then if you were so worried, you should have come back sooner! Where were you?" He flinches, it encourages me to press on. "Why is everyone so scared of you, Marshall? Stop hiding and tell me the truth."
He rises to his full height. "You already know the truth. It spilled from your pretty lips weeks ago."
"Then you are in the mafia," I say. "What else?"
Leaning away, he regards me with his eyebrows arched high as possible. "That's it? That's your reaction to this news?"
"I figured it was true before I set foot on your plane." Narrowing my eyes, I try to seem calmer than I really am. "There's more going on here. Everyone is so terrified of you."
"Almost everyone," he murmurs, looking me over. My heart flutters when he rubs a gloved finger over his jaw; I want to know how it would feel on my skin. "At some point you stopped fearing me. The second I tell you what you're begging me for, that'll change."
"You'd rather keep secrets from me?"
"Yes," he says quickly. "God, yes, I'd take that over seeing your face when all my demons come crawling out to dance in plain sight. Leona, why do you need to know these things? What's the point?"
"Because ..." I trail off, unsure of myself. Unsure of the moment. There's something growing in me that's too fragile to give a name. Not yet. I can't risk putting my heart on the scale if I'm not confident in the price to sell it for. I glance at his gloves, and when he sees where I'm looking, he puts his hands in his pockets. "Why are you wearing those?" I whisper.
"It's cold."
"Stop lying to me."
"Stop asking me things I can't tell you!"
"You can!" I shout, throwing my arms out wide. "The only thing stopping you is this weird idea you're protecting me! I don't need you to protect me, Marshall! I'm not naive, I know the world is full of bad things and bad people. Did you forget who my family is?" That makes him scowl, his head lowering so I can't see his face in all the shadows. "My parents raised me with secrets around every corner. Stop treating me like I'm porcelain!"
"Fine." He says it softly, and that's scarier than if he'd yelled. His head stays down as he speaks, each word clipped, like he's cutting them out with a knife. "The gloves are so I don't leave any evidence behind."
A slight pounding begins in my eardrums. "Like fingerprints?"
"Yes," he responds, bringing his hands out of his pockets. One of them holds a gun, and I know it's the weapon I felt in his jacket the night we kissed in the elevator. "Justice only goes one way in the eyes of the law. The only protection you have if you commit a crime is to not get caught."
"What kind of crimes?" I ask shakily.
Finally he looks at me. His eyes are matte, like the light can't reach them, like it never really could. "How many times do you have to learn that I'm the Devil, sweet girl? What crimes? Are you wishing I'd list them for you, let you weigh them to see which is worse than the others?"
In a blur of black he crowds me against the cold wall. The sleek texture of his gloves cradles my cheeks, pushes my chin up, forces me to look at his furious face. The gun's barrel is strangely warm where it digs into my temple. It could go off any moment. I could die here in this alley. "Marshall ..."
"Tell me you want to know," he seethes, his nose grinding on mine. "Say you're ready to let me split you apart and shred your innocent, brittle idea that I'm a good man. Go on. I'll do it if you ask. This is your chance, Leona. Do you truly want to know what I've done to make people far and wide fear me?"
I'm shaking so hard my ears are ringing. I can't feel the bricks, or the winter air, or the deadly weapon leaving pressure marks on my skin. I can only feel the panicked way he's squeezing my face in his hands as he prays for permission to ruin me. And I don't remember why I asked. And I don't know what I want the answer to be.
"Living," I strain to say that lone word.
His grip tightens. "What was that?"
"Living or dying," I say, holding his hot stare with every iota of boldness I have left in me. "You're right. No one knows how strong they are until they have to choose. I can't live without the truth. I don't want to." Lifting my hand, I trace his scarred lip. "Tell me about this. Tell me everything. It won't destroy me to know."
The gun falls away. He glances at it, before crushing the handle like he wants to shatter it into a thousand pieces. Faster than possible he hides it back in his jacket, his hands gone from my body. I miss them.
He tugs the tip of the left glove until it slips away, exposing his bare hand. Gingerly, he traces his small facial scar. "This was from a ring. A big, gaudy ring on the knuckle of the man who used to force dogs to fight."
I'm too stunned to comment. I worry if I speak, he'll clam up.
Marshall looks at his own palm as he talks, flexing his fingers in gentle waves. "He caught me trying to free his animals. Beat the shit out of me. I got away, but not before he figured out who I was. That was my mistake, really. I don't regret trying to help the dogs, I didn't even care that he turned my face into hamburger. Getting caught, that was the big one.
"You see, he tracked me down after that. Had his goons bully my father into agreeing to pay back the debt I'd brought on by messing up the dog ring. I told Dad he shouldn't get involved, but I was ten years old and dumb as hell. That asshole who split my lip, he worked for the Lucardo crime family. My father had to do as they asked. He had no choice. No one does once you make a deal with the mafia."
"Lucardo family?" I ask. "I've never heard of them."
"Why would you?" he says wearily. "I wish I hadn't. It was hard for me to grasp the things my father would do for them, and
for what, money to pay back a debt that wasn't even his? He had this goddamn sense of duty to keep his only son safe. But he was an artist, not a killer, and it's what ended up putting him in the ground."
A gnarled pit grows inside of me, like I'm a fruit rotting from the inside out. The sadness in his eyes breaks me apart. "Marshall, that's ... my god ..."
"Should I stop?" he asks, his breath running over my skin, cooling the tears on my cheeks I didn't know were there. I shake my head, and he smiles bittersweetly. "He was extremely talented. It's amazing how much use the mob has for expensive art. My dad was their perfect tool, they wanted him on a leash as long as possible. Never a true member, though he preferred it that way. He always imagined he'd get out of their grasp someday and didn't want to rise in the ranks. His death was an accident. He got caught up in a shootout with a hair-trigger drug dealer who thought he was in the middle of a set up."
"I'm so, so sorry." It's all I can say. It's not enough.
He doesn't react, his eyes fixing on something overhead. I look up, but I don't see anything. "Ten years. He spent ten years trying to pay the debt back. There was always something else keeping the Lucardo's hooks in him. That's their trick, you know. A favor becomes a loan becomes an opportunity becomes a new favor becomes another loan, on and on. There's no way to leave. When he died, they turned to me. I was, after all, his son. My father taught me everything he knew about art, remember? The Underboss, Benson Lucardo, wanted me to become his replacement. I accepted."
"You agreed to work for them?" I ask, my voice rising. "After what happened to your father, how could you?"
He makes a fist, reading the tattoos on his wrist. "'Le mani di mio padre.' My father's hands. I have these because of him. They can create, they can help, and they can hurt. I remind myself every single day that what I do, I do for him."
"My father was a good man," he says seriously. "Benson Lucardo is a strangely sympathetic man. He seemed genuinely sad that my father was killed, even swore he'd pass on any information about the killer, though considering the number of unhinged drug dealers in this city, he didn't give me false hope. When he asked me to work for him, I don't know if I could have walked away. The mafia hates dangling strings. I knew too much. I told him I'd work for him, but I wanted something in exchange." He smiles as he brushes the scar on his mouth. "It wasn't hard to convince Benson that Joshua, the dog pit owner, was drawing too much of the wrong attention, putting the Lucardo family at risk. That's what they care about the most after their precious cash, being invisible to the cops." He stops talking, watching me with fresh curiosity. "There are two things you need to join the mafia. Italian blood, which I have through my father, and to make an approved hit. I think he forgot who I was. Hard to blame him since I didn't look like a stringy ten-year-old anymore. But I reminded him before it was over."
My tongue is dry as I force my question out. "How did you do it?"
He stares at me without any hint of emotion. I wish I hadn't asked, but I've come this far. I need to understand the whole picture. What Marshall did, what shaped him to become the man who could kiss with such passion while sending violent men fleeing in pale fear. "The dogs," he says quietly. "I let the dogs he tortured have their way with him. After that, everyone began to call me the Devil. And they always will."
There's a hummingbird inside my chest in place of my heart. I push my hands to my ribs, willing myself to calm down, but it doesn't work. "And the dogs?"
"What?" he asks, caught sideways by my question.
"After all that, what happened to them? You tried to free them the first time, but you couldn't. Nothing should have stopped you the second time, right?"
He considers me with his head canting to one side. A faint smile crosses his lips. "I just told you I had a man ripped to shreds out of revenge, and you want to know about the dogs. Who the hell are you, Leona Hark?"
"Someone who wants to believe you're not as evil as you're trying to convince the world you are."
That sours his expression fast. "That's a mistake. Stop trying to justify my actions."
"What happened to the dogs?" I ask again.
"I rounded them up and had them sent to rescues that were familiar with abused animals."
I'm breathing easier as he finishes talking. Gently, I put my hand on his forearm, sliding down until I'm resting on his bare skin. "You saved them."
"They deserved better than being euthanized."
"They did," I agree seriously. "But why did you try and free them in the first place? When you were a kid, I mean. Did you not know it was a risk if you got caught?"
He touches his mouth again, then places his gloved hand over mine. "I knew."
"Then?"
"I saw it," he says, his voice shifting to a hoarse whisper. "My father used to sell his paintings on the street. I would help him. Carrying things, collecting money, watching the merch. One day, I was chasing after someone who had forgotten his change. He went down a set of stairs into this dark cellar in an apartment complex. That was when I saw the dogs. They were lying in cages, eyes wet, tongues pale. They were good dogs, Leona. And I'd always wanted a dog, but my father ..." He smiles tragically. "He was allergic. I never got to keep any pets." His smile washes away. "I hid when Joshua came into the room. The dogs started raging, barking, going mad. They were terrified. They didn't want to go. How could I see all that suffering and not try to help?"
The coldness he was so comfortable wearing as a mask has gone away. Marshall can't keep the raw emotion hidden as he recounts this part of his story. I watch, mesmerized by this honest reflection of who he was, who he still is.
He can call himself the Devil all he wants.
I know the truth.
Cradling his head, I kiss him softly, my eyes closing so I can experience the moment for all it is. The noise of the city life echoes in the distance; a car honking, someone shouting swears, a cat yowling. I kiss him in the place where I was attacked moments ago. And I kiss him knowing his scar is a mark of the pain he endured far too young.
"Wait," he pants, breaking our lip-lock, gripping my shoulders like he has to keep us apart. "What are you doing?"
"Kissing you."
"Why? I just confirmed to you that I'm involved with the mafia! I told you I had a man torn to shreds by dogs! How can you want to touch me after learning that?"
"I wanted to know everything," I say, tugging at his grip, but he holds firm. "You gave me it, Marshall. I finally understand a piece of you I couldn't before."
"Exactly. You should be running out of this alley."
"Am I the first person you told all of this?"
He hesitates before nodding.
"Well, I don't know how anyone else would react, but I'm not going to run." Leaning forward, I try to kiss him again, but he forces me against the wall. "Stop it," I say.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Leona?"
"Nothing. This was always going to go one of two ways. I'd either hate you after learning your past, or I'd ..."
"You'd what?" he hisses.
"Or I'd stop denying I'm falling in love with you."
His hands drift away from me. They look funny with one glove on, but the tension between us is anything but. Marshall's eyes are bulging, his lips parted, our silence dangling like raindrops on a leaf taking too long to fall. "You can't love me. You've never been in love before, you wouldn't know what it feels like."
"If this isn't love, I'd never survive the real thing," I say. "Do you think this is easy? Standing here and admitting this? That I pictured saying these words to someone in a filthy alley after some thugs tried to rob me?"
"Leona ..."
"Say it back," I demand, taking a step towards him. "Say it back before it's too late. I won't make you love me, if that's your game. You either do or you don't. But get it over with now before I regret this." I'm already beginning to. In my dreams, it was the hero who fell to his knees, declaring his undying love, saving me from putting myself on the spot.
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Heat creeps up the back of my neck. He's staring at me like I'm a ghost. Humiliated tears start to burn behind my eyes. I'm on the verge of saying forget it and storming out of the alley when he speaks first. "Make me say it?" he whispers. "I've been holding those damn words back with all I have since the moment you opened the bedroom door in your red velvet dress."
Joy blossoms through my body. "Stop resisting. I'm strong enough, so are you."
"I don't know if that's true," he says. "I guess we'll find out, won't we?" There's a hint of regret on his tongue, but when he pulls me against him, kissing me hard, I don't taste it. "I love you, Leona," he whispers along my lips. My skin buzzes sweetly. "I love you, and you're mine."
"I'm yours," I say, thrilling.
"There's no going back from this." He runs his fingers through my hair, making my scalp tingle. "It'd be easier to suck a pomegranate through a straw than end this thing you've unleashed."
Picturing the reddish pulp of the brutally destroyed fruit, I shudder. I don't want to think of our new love, this beautiful, burning emotion, as something that could be mutilated.
But my heart warns me he's right.
We'll either grow together in bliss
or be destroyed in the process.
Chapter 13.
"You did all this?"
I smile proudly at Marshall where he stands in the sun beams streaming down from the window. He's holding two paper cups of coffee from a nearby shop and a bag of something that smells sweet.
"Why are you awake?" I ask. "It's only eight."
"Why the hell are you awake?" he asks with a laugh. "What time did you come down here to work?"
"I don't know. Maybe five or so?"
"Jesus."
"I want to get everything done in time for the show," I say, blushing a bit. "It has to be amazing, Marshall. It just has to be."
His smile fades in a way that makes me uneasy. Turning, he puts the coffees and bag on a small table he brought after visiting me in the studio and seeing how I was using the lone chair for everything. He'd also brought me a phone charger so my phone wouldn't die again and give us a repeat of what happened last week. "Take a break with me," he says.
