It comes off my finger. I feel a strangely euphoric sense of relief seeing my hand bare. And then Nick grins. He’s holding the ring between his teeth, the diamond in front, catching the faint light and tossing it back.
He pulls it back and spits it across the room. There’s a faint “ting” as it hits the floor.
“Let’s go,” says Nick, and we go.
Chapter Four
Nick
Honest to God, I can’t believe what I’ve just done. Sal De Luca’s girlfriend—no, his fiancée—in my house. She’s gorgeous, even with her face tear streaked and her dress still a little askew from having my hands inside it. My fingers still smell like her cunt. I want to taste her there, drive my tongue into her. I want to fuck her every which way to Sunday.
Then she’ll be mine. I’ll fuck every trace of Sal off her, and neither of us will ever have to think about him again.
It’s a heady feeling, like being a little too drunk. Sal won’t ever recover from this. There’ll be no question, then, of who should take over as Spada’s right-hand man. It’ll be me, and they’ll run Sal out of town on a rail.
I hear a soft sniffing noise, and it pulls me out of my thoughts. Sarah’s still standing near the front door, looking almost lost. Forlorn. My triumph fades a little.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask her.
She drags her attention to me and looks at me for a minute like she’s not quite sure who I am. Then she nods. “Sure. Something hot.”
“I can do that.”
I get her situated on a nice, comfortable chair in the living room, then go back into the kitchen to mix her up a hot toddy. Rum and butter, a little hot water. Cinnamon? Sure. Why not? I make one for myself, too, and bring them back into the living room.
In the archway between the kitchen and the living room, though, I stop. She’s sitting there quietly on the couch, and she’s started crying again. Not a lot—just a few tears streaking down her face, like they’re left over from the crying jag she had at the restaurant. She shoves her hand across her cheeks, shoving them away like she’s angry at them. She’s not facing in my direction; her focus is on the bookshelf against the opposite wall. I know what she’s doing—when you’re uncomfortable in somebody’s house, you distract yourself checking out their library. I hope she’s finding mine fascinating.
Strangely I find myself not able to move right away. I just want to stand there and take her in. She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s more than that. She’s so vulnerable right now, and I know damn well I’m taking advantage of that, but I think she knows it, too. And something about her just…
I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just a sort of warm feeling in my chest. Something about looking at her makes me happy.
At least I think that’s what it is. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been happy. Not like some other guys I know who’ve settled down with good women and are raising families. I always thought Dad was happy, at least in the last couple of decades or so. Maybe he fought, too. Maybe he had issues with the Spadas and everything that was expected of us. But with me and my brother, with my mom, he was good.
I swallow hard as I’m hit with a sudden vision of Sarah, still in my house, still in my living room, but with her body heavy and beautiful with a child. My child. I want that. I want that quiet kind of security that having a woman at home, having a family, gives a man. And I can’t put it off much longer. Life is short.
I must make a noise or something, or maybe Sarah just feels me looking at her, because she turns abruptly, looking almost startled. I give her a reassuring smile and move toward her with her drink.
“Hot toddy,” I tell her as she takes it out of my hand. “Good choice?”
She smiles, hesitant, or maybe still sad. “Good choice.”
Carefully she sips at the drink and then makes a face, but I can tell the grimace is because the toddy is hot and not because she doesn’t like it. “Cinnamon,” she says. “Nice touch.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Without asking permission, I sit down next to her on the couch and stretch an arm out along the back of it, my fingers only a couple of inches from her shoulder. I sample the drink; it’s hot but tasty, and the heat and the liquor feel good sliding down.
For a few minutes we just sit quietly, sipping our drinks and not quite looking at each other. It’s awkward, but that’s all right. It’s a start.
Finally I set my drink down on the end table and ask her the question that’s been bugging the hell out of me since even before we met at that party. “How did you end up with Sal, anyway?”