by Nora Flite
My heart stutters when I hear his name, imagining him meeting my brother.
"He didn't say it outright, but he was trying to warn Willbur about what was really going on."
"Which was?"
"Drugs," she sighs, shaking her head. "Bradford was using the girls to transport drugs. They had huge duffel bags. Said they were for their costumes because they were dancers at the club. Willbur sobered up enough to drive them where they asked. The cops were watching the club, though. They pulled him over and that's where everything fell apart. He didn't know about the drugs, but you heard the court case, no one cared. No one believed him, except for me."
That cuts me deep. She doesn't have to spell it out, but I know she's insinuating I didn't believe our brother. A jolt of unease makes my muscles tense. Marshall asked me about Willbur. He knew what had happened, and he asked me, and I made it clear I thought he'd done the crime and belonged in jail. God, I feel awful.
Hugging myself, I lower my head. "What happened next?"
"Well. I talked to Willbur about everything. He told his lawyer what happened, but it didn't matter. There was no proof. The girls said Willbur was selling the drugs because they were terrified of turning on Bradford Mink. I don't blame them. I thought there was a chance Willbur would go free, but when he lost, I was furious. What else could I do but get revenge on the man responsible for putting him behind bars?"
"Revenge," I repeat, tasting the word. "Marshall talked a lot about that with me." I blink a few times, then stare at her. "You reached out to him."
"Marshall? Yeah. Well, first I went to the organized crime division. No one wanted to touch this case, but there was a lovely woman who heard me out. When I brought up Marshall Klintock, her whole demeanor changed. She told me what to do, and I agreed."
Gripping my water, I take a deep swig. My mouth is endlessly dry, my hands trembling. I can sense where this is going but don't want to hear it.
Katy can't look at me anymore as she talks. "Marshall refused to respond to my messages until I told him I could get him information he desperately wanted. That I could help him figure out who had killed his father."
I drop the water bottle, scrambling to right it as a puddle forms. "How could you have that info?"
"The woman at the crime division. She had it. It was the carrot on the stick to get him to create a setup to catch Bradford Mink in the act."
"Jesus Christ," I hush. "This is where I come in. Isn't it? You and him. You worked together to pull me into your scheme."
"Yes, Leona, but—"
"Why not tell me?" I demand, rising to my feet, knocking my chair over. The noise draws the attention of an officer who glances into the room, but I ignore him, my fury fully aimed at my sister. "Why put me in danger like that? How could you, Katy?"
"You weren't in any danger! Marshall was protecting you at all times!"
"Protecting me? He used me! YOU used me!"
"Did you not hear me before? If I told you, if he told you, the game would be up! You couldn't have kept it a secret! You couldn't have made yourself create art if you knew what it was for! God, talking to Bradford Mink knowing all of this? You'd have broken into a nervous sweat! Think about it, Leona, please. This was the only way to help our brother. Believe me. Please."
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. I clench them to stop it. "You made me think Marshall was dangerous."
"Well, he is. That was true. But I knew he was on our side. And if something went wrong, I was always ready to swoop in and pull you out."
My forehead bunches up to the point of pain. "You said you'd been here for weeks." I study her red hat, her heels under the table, and clarity jolts into my mind. "Oh my god. That was you in the mall, wasn't it? You were talking to him?"
Her cheeks go redder. "You saw me? Guess I'm not as sly as I thought. I couldn't call Marshall or text him about the plans, too risky in case someone else in the Lucardo family intercepted the messages. The most I could do was send him 'scary big sister' texts, stuff that seemed logical, like me telling him to keep his hands off of you. That was my code for needing to talk to him face to face."
I drop stiffly back into my chair. "How many times did you meet up?"
She chews her lip as she recounts. "Several. The first night you arrived, I spoke to him in his condo in one of the spare rooms on the first floor."
"How is that possible? I left the estate, and you stayed behind."
"I took our personal plane a little after you left."
My memory blurs as I remember that first night. How I'd been constrained by Marshall in the elevator, our bodies rubbing together, our breath hot and heavy. How we'd almost gone too far until I'd felt his gun. "I was freaking out about where he went," I say slowly, "and he was with you that whole time."
"His instructions were to make you hate him enough, so you wouldn't want to get too involved. It couldn't get personal, or you'd start asking too many questions. He swore he'd make you think he was awful, but I can't pretend I trusted him entirely. He is in the mafia."
"Yes," I agree solemnly. "He is."
All at once I get why he came on so strong at the start. His overt flirting was meant to make me reject him, to think he was a pervert or worse. Then I'd responded positively, ruining the game. His hot and cold act makes sense now.
We sit in silence for a while. Katy is pale, and I wonder if I am, too. There's so much left unsaid between us, but I don't know if it matters. What else could she tell me that would fix the split that travels from my heart to my soul and everywhere in between? I feel hollow. Undone.
"Oh," she says, straightening, reaching for something under her jacket. "Here. The woman I was working with in the special unit gave it to me."
Katy slides my bag across the table to me. I put my hand on to, feeling the shape of my sketchbook. I take it out because feeling isn't enough, I need to see it. "Thank you," I say sincerely.
"It's nothing."
And we're draped in heavy silence again.
"What happens now?" I ask warily.
"Well. The only person the authorities cared about catching in the act was Bradford. He'll probably serve a lot of time."
"And the others?" I ask, but I really mean Marshall.
"The Lucardo family has incredible lawyers. They care for their own, so I expect the rest of those men will be back on the street in days. As for Marshall, they won't charge him with anything. The deal was solid. He gave them what they wanted in exchange for what he wanted."
"Right." I shift in my chair, a bitter chuckle sliding from my twisted lips. "Guess it worked out. Happy endings for all of us."
"Leona ..."
"Can I go?" I ask, eyeing her, then the open door. "I'm not under arrest, that's what you said, right? It was all pretend, so the mafia wouldn't target me as a traitor?"
"Yeah, but—"
Clutching my sketchbook to my chest, I stride towards the exit. The cop in the hall sees me coming and moves aside.
"Leona, wait!" Katy calls, starting to follow.
Spinning, I shake my head at her. "It's okay. Really. Just give me some time."
I don't know if she's convinced, but she stops in her tracks. Free of her tailing me, I power walk through the building and straight out the front door into the dark night. No one does anything but cast a glance my way.
I'm replaying the events of the past weeks in my mind through the lens of my sister's explanation. Katy and Marshall, both working together, both letting me be the tool to get what they want.
I'm unsure if I can forgive them. Even if I'm starting to see why they used the methods they did, I still feel violated. Betrayed by the two people I love the most.
Love. Do I still really?
"Leona."
His voice reaches my ears seconds after I'm down the street. The police station is still visible behind me, but the road is quiet, the traffic stale.
And there he is. My Devil.
Chapter 17.
Hours.
> That's all that's passed since Marshall revealed the lie he trapped me in. That moment calcified my heart. It feels like it happened ages ago. How can things change so fast?
He's dressed just as he was at the gallery, in a thick jacket and straight pants. He's motionless as an iced lake, but I'm sure he's fighting the constant pull that draws us together. I know he feels it because I feel it. I plant my shoes on the sidewalk firmly, refusing to be lured back into his web. I haven't forgiven my own sister yet, how can I forgive him?
His hands are buried in his jacket pockets, I wonder if he's layering every precaution to keep himself from snatching me up. His attention drops to my shoulder bag. "That's a relief."
"What, this?" I hug it closer. "Katy gave it back to me."
"That means Min passed it on to the police. I told her to, I was worried your sketchbook would get lost in the chaos."
I balk, looking from him, to my bag, then back again. "You're the reason this is safe?"
"Of course. I know how important it is to you."
White-hot anger spirals through me. "You know how important it is? You know?" Ripping my bag off my arm, I yank out the sketchbook and shake it in his face. "You think I believe you actually care about what matters to me? After everything you put me through, all your lies, you expect me to believe that? To believe anything?"
"Leona—"
I can't stop myself. No longer able to contain it, all the hurt inside of me boils up and out through my arms, and I throw the sketchbook into his chest. "How could you do this to me?" I scream, tears forming but not falling yet. Fury holds them back even as my composure crumbles. "Why, after everything we did, everything we said, how could you lie to my face?"
Marshall doesn't react. The book bounces off of him, spreading across the sidewalk, pages fluttering in the winter wind. Each passion-filled scribble is exposed before our eyes.
He crouches, and I think he's going to pick it up. He leaves the book where it is. There's something pinched in his fingers, something small and soft and red as blood. "It's funny," he says dryly, turning the rose petal, "when we first met, you taught me not everything is as broken as it seems. Sometimes it transforms, becomes something different, something special." His expression burns with multiple emotions: torment, relief, desire. He's a multifaceted diamond waiting for me to turn him in whatever direction I choose to find the best angle for the light to strike.
My eyes ache from not blinking. I don't dare break our stare, because I know I'll spin without control through my memories, swimming until I'm back in the past with the sun overhead and the scent of roses in my nose. The moment before Marshall Klintock stole me away. A time where I saw him as darkly beautiful, intriguing, a mystery to solve. I didn't know what he'd do to me. "Why," I croak.
"She showed me your art," he whispers, looking from me to my sketchbook. "Sent me the link to your private portfolio online. Your sister meant no harm. She was lost, seeking a way to save her brother."
"He isn't saved," I argue, "he's still in a cell."
"Yes. But Bradford will be locked away, too."
"Revenge gets us nothing."
"It gives us a chance," he says, his voice gritty, raw. It's a wonder he doesn't crush the rose petal. It reminds me how gentle he can be when he desires. "Bradford will strike a deal for a lesser sentence. I know the man, he's all about saving his skin. Your brother's lawyer can work their magic, make Bradford admit he set Willbur up and get his name cleared. There are layers to our world, Leona."
"To my world, or yours?" Bending down, I cradle my sketchbook. There's dirt on the pages; I dust it off carefully. "You used me. You broke my heart. It didn't have to be this way. We could have ... you and me ..." I can't finish.
"We still can," he says, but he doesn't reach for me. He just holds the petal, searching my face for something that says I understand. The problem is I do understand. That makes it worse. "Leona, I don't want to lose you."
"You already have," I whisper. A tear drops onto the page, smearing my elegant pencil lines. I scrub my face hard to wipe the evidence away but it doesn't help. "How can I ever trust you after what you did?"
"Because I did it for you!" he cries, and still, he doesn't advance on me. I marvel at whatever is holding him back. The man I know would never stop himself from touching me. "I never planned to fall for you. That first night in my place, I came back and found you sleeping. You looked so vulnerable, innocent. It reminded me of ..." He steadies himself, daring me to react to his moment of vulnerability. "You reminded me of those poor dogs. The idea of introducing you to Bradford Mink, it just, it just messed me up. I paced my living room, threw off my shirt, but I couldn't feel comfortable inside my own skin! I didn't want to put you in danger, didn't want to lie to you! I called your sister immediately and told her I wanted to back out. She assured me you'd feel relief, more than that, joy when the truth of our scheme was revealed to you!"
Thinking back to that night, how I'd peeked at him through the bedroom door, I shiver. "You tried to end the plan?"
"Yes. I did. Your sister was insistent."
That makes me smile. "That's her alright."
"Each time I thought I was doing the right thing, I'd misstep. Your sister did her best to remind us both that getting close to you was insanity. And when you told me you loved me, when you had me pick up a paintbrush again, I almost gave in and spilled the entire scheme. In the end I bit my tongue, convinced your life would be in danger, Leona."
"I could have kept the plan a secret."
"No, you couldn't. Beyond that, do you think you would have gone through with it? You would’ve bailed, and you would have had every right to. But Bradford, he would have been suspicious. If you ran, you were dead. Probably me, too."
I wish I could be furious at his read of me. Deep down I know he's right. I was so upset when Bradford revealed the money laundering setup that I was on the verge of bolting. The clear threat from him had stopped me in my tracks.
"My sister," I say, watching his face closely. "She said you did this to get information about who killed your father."
He exhales a massive burst of air that swirls around us both. "Yes."
"But you said you tried to abandon the plan that first night. You'd have chosen saving me from experiencing this mess over getting your revenge?"
The hand holding the rose petal twitches. "If I could change all of this so that you never felt a lick of hate for me, Leona Hark, I would."
"Why?"
"Isn't it obvious? With everything I am, everything I have, I love you."
Heat swirls through my core. Staring at the tiny petal fluttering in the chilly night wind, I say nothing. Not a sound passes my lips. Lifting my sketchbook I tuck it into my bag. Marshall watches me so intently that when his hair rustles into his own eyes he doesn't brush it away.
He's a man at the guillotine, waiting to know if the blade will fall.
Wondering how I'll sentence him after all he's done.
His arm starts to drop. I catch it before it goes far, cradling his wrist with my hands, the inked phrase Le mani di mio padre shining in the streetlights. He is warm as a furnace against my skin. "Now you know," I whisper hoarsely.
"What?" he asks in soft surprise.
"How I felt when you made me wait." A mild smirk grows over my lips. "Saying that sentence, admitting it, it's agony to wonder if the other person will say it back."
"Leona," he whispers.
"I love you, Marshall. I truly love you. It's why everything you did hurt me so much. Every single lie, for my benefit or not, sliced me apart. I never want to feel this way again. I can't, or I'll shatter into a thousand pieces and never come back together. Do you understand?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"Promise me." There are new tears in my eyes. These hurt so much less. "Even if you're in the mafia, you can't lie to me again."
In a swirl of solid muscle and relieved sighs he circles me. He threads his fingers in my hair, the rose petal tangli
ng there, its scent in my nose mixing with his. It's winter but everything reminds me of spring. "I love you," he says against my lips. "I promise with all I have, all I am, that I'll never lie to you again, Leona. Not for any reason. You'll have my truth for better or worse from now until my final breath."
"I love you, too," I manage, before he kisses me so hard that I think there'll be bruises left in his wake. And I don't mind.
Those are less harmful than a broken heart.
****
We're still kissing when the elevator reaches his penthouse floor. I don't want to stop, not even for a second, even if my lungs scream that I have to. He deftly unlocks his door without breaking away from me. The things he can do with such natural ease are stunning.
"We're home," he whispers, kicking the door shut behind us, lifting me in his arms. I cling to him like he's a rock in the middle of a rough sea as he carries me into his bedroom. My fingertips leave imprints on his jaw. He pushes me onto the crimson blankets, but I cling on, my nails scraping his skin as I fall.
There's no blood, but I gasp. "Sorry, are you okay?"
He laughs from the bottom of his stomach, mischief creating delirious sparks in his hypnotizing stare. "You can't hurt me, Leona. Not like this."
"How?" I ask, eager to know, eager to never do it. He rips off his jacket and it falls to his feet. I see his undershirt has something in the front pocket, something square, but then his clothing is gone and his perfectly muscled chest distracts my focus. "Here," he says, grabbing my wrist as he stands over the bed. I'm level with his hard stomach and even harder erection. "In here." He spreads my palm across his skin, over his beating heart. "You can make me bleed. You can cut the meat from my bones. I'll survive it all, Leona. I'll be a whole man with every new surface scar. But if you ruin my heart, erode my soul, that will end me. And that would take less than a whisper, if you desired it."
"I'd never," I assure him in a cracked voice. Encircling his thick neck I bring him down to me. He braces his hands on the headboard, kissing me fervently with his tongue guiding the way. Everything that belongs to him is hot to the touch.