I don’t ask him what he does care about. The answer is obvious—nothing.

I’m trying to puzzle through this.

Nero isn’t kind. He doesn’t do things to be “nice.” Especially not to women. He’s got a trail of scorned hearts a mile wide behind him. There isn’t a pretty girl in this city who hasn’t been caught up in the flame of his charm, only to burn like a paper flower.

The only reason I can think of is that Nero doesn’t view me like one of those women. He’s not interested in me, or he’d take me and use me up just like the others.

No. I’m like a starving puppy in the street. He tossed me a scrap because it was easy, and it cost him nothing.

“I don’t need your pity,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him, anger burning out of me. I may not rage out loud like Nero, but I have bitterness inside of me, too. I could be dangerous. If I wanted to be.

Nero looks at me with those cool gray eyes. He’s picking me apart, taking in my every flaw and blemish. The frizzy curls escaping from my bun, the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, the grease embedded under my fingernails and in the lines of my knuckles. My chapped lips and my shit clothes.

“Why are you mad?” he says. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know why you’re not acting like you usually do.”

“Is that what you want?”

His voice is low, and his eyes are fixed on my face. His body tenses up like he’s going to hit me.

My lips part. I don’t know what I’m going to say.

I don’t get the chance to say anything.

Nero closes the space between us in an instant.

His lips crash against mine. They’re soft, but also hungry. He kisses me wildly, like this is the last moment of our lives. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and his taste is as intoxicating as the liquor, rich and warm and head-spinning. His hands are locked around my face, fingers like iron. The music is still playing:

“Sober” - G-Eazy (Spotify)

“Sober” - G-Eazy (Apple Music)

He’s sucking the breath right out of my lungs. He might be pulling my soul out, too, if he really is a demon that feeds on the lust of women.

I don’t care if he is. My heart is pounding, my whole body is aching with need.

I want him, I want him, I want him.

Then he lets go of me, just as abruptly.

He sits back in his seat. “There,” he says.

I’m shocked and reeling, lips still throbbing.

He’s still as a statue, feeling nothing at all. That was just a joke to him—giving me a taste of what he can turn on and off at will.

I can’t turn it off. My thighs are clenched tight together, my whole body screaming for more.

“We can go,” Nero says. “Cops probably gave up by now.”

He starts the engine, still not looking at me. Probably because there’s desperation all over my face, and it’s embarrassing to him.

“Are you sober enough to drive?” I say.

“Yes,” he says, putting the car in reverse. “I’d have to drink that whole bottle to feel anything at all.”

He’s right. Malt liquor isn’t that strong.

I wish I could blame this on being drunk. I wish I could blackout and forget it all in the morning.

8

Nero

We’re meeting with the Griffins today to talk about the South Shore development.

We meet at The Brass Anchor, which has become our regular spot, since that first night where Papa and Fergus Griffin had to negotiate on neutral ground to avoid an all-out war.

We all waited in our cars that night, Papa and Fergus approaching each other in front of the double doors, stiff and formal. Today the mood is completely different. Papa shakes hands with Fergus like he does with all his old friends, gripping Fergus’s elbow with his opposite hand, then clapping him hard on the shoulder as he releases him.

“You’re looking well, Fergus,” Papa says. “Tell me how you never age. Is there formaldehyde in that Irish whiskey?”

“I hope not. Gray hairs are good for business,” Fergus says, smiling. “Nobody trusts a young man.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Papa says, turning to shake Callum’s hand, too. “I hear you’re getting all kinds of things done.”

“Yes, we are,” Callum says.

The other half of that “we” isn’t Fergus—it’s Aida, my baby sister. She kisses Papa on both cheeks.

I never thought I’d see the day, but Aida actually looks really fucking professional. She’s wearing a man’s dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into high-waisted trousers. She’s got on heels, and earrings, and even a little swipe of lip gloss. It’s not totally conventional, but she looks chic.

“What the hell is this?” I say, letting her kiss me on the cheek as well. “Where’re your sneakers?”

“Oh, I’ve still got ‘em,” Aida says, tipping me a wink. “If you want to race me.”

“I do like racing,” I say.

Aida’s eyes gleam. “Got any good stories for me?” she says.

She’s been down to the street races a few times. I never let her use my car. That would be like handing a spear gun to Jason Voorhees—it’s just begging for mayhem.

“Bella Page tried to race Camille Rivera,” I tell her.

“I don’t like Bella,” Aida says, making a face.

“Who would?”

“I dunno. Maybe those people who like eating weapons-grade hot sauce.”

“Masochists,” I say.

“Right.” She grins. “So what happened?”

“Bella almost rolled her G-Wagon.”

“Ugh! Can’t believe I missed that. Who’s the girl that won?”

“Camille?”

“Yeah.”

“Her dad owns that auto shop on Wells.”

“Hm. Is she a friend of yours?” Aida says, her sharp eyes scanning my face.

Goddamnit. Aida is like a heat-seeking missile. If there’s some information you’re trying to hide from her, she’ll hone in on it with breathtaking precision, then hound it out of you.

And I’m not even hiding anything. There’s nothing to tell.

“I sort of know her,” I say.

“In the biblical sense?” Aida teases me, in her most annoying and persistent way.

“No.”

“A girl you haven’t slept with? What, does she have three eyes? No teeth? What’s the problem?”

Jesus Christ. I’ve already given Aida too much ammunition.

The truth is that Camille isn’t my type at all. But I sort of felt like we might be becoming friends—a little bit. I kind of liked her. And I don’t like anybody. I barely like my own family. In fact, right now, I’m only 50/50 on Aida.

So it was a new thing for me, feeling like hanging around with Camille wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Then she was so weird in the parking garage. I couldn’t tell if she liked me or hated me, if she wanted me to touch her or didn’t. So I defaulted to what I always do with women, when I want them to shut the fuck up. I kissed her.