Armando. Shit!
Why does it feel like life or death for me, too? I don’t want to care this much. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even a friend. He’s not anything. And yet I’m already fully invested. Same as ever—falling too fast. Too hard. Too intensely.
But knowing that doesn’t change this crashing sensation all around me. Armando is mixed up in something bad. And I really don’t want him to die.
But this is my reality if there is to be anything with this man. He’s in the mafia. I know this. I can’t ignore this. He is who he is, and I’m just a girl who owns a flower shop.
There’s a wall built around him made from bricks of traditions, rules, dictates from people more powerful than he. It’s a den of sins he lives in, and no matter how much I’m enjoying this little game of playing house with him, I need to remember my reality.
What if he doesn’t come back?
What if he does come back?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Armando
Mother. Fucker.
My whole body’s ice cold as I get out of the Uber in front of my apartment building. Four squad cars and an ambulance block the road, lights flashing. Cops crawl all over the place. I hold my hands in the air as I approach.
“I’m Armando Rossi, the guy whose apartment was shot up,” I tell the first cop who spots me.
“All right.” He speaks into his comm unit. “I’ve got the victim down here.” He listens to the answer. “Yeah, I’ll bring him up.” He eyes me suspiciously. “You have any weapons on you?”
I keep my hands in the air. “No, sir.”
He pats me down to be sure then says, “Come with me.”
On my floor, I see Marco standing with an officer. His apartment is two flights up, next door to Leo’s. I hope to God their places weren’t involved in this shit too.
He lifts his chin at me. We pass the apartment manager, who points and snarls, “I want you out of this place by tomorrow. I never should’ve let a felon rent here.”
“He stays,” Marco’s firm but raised voice cuts across the low conversations going on, making everyone look.
I ignore them both. I’m dead again. I taste ash on my tongue. My movements are mechanical. I see in shades of dark grey. Everything closes around me like the metal bars of my cell back in Joliet. I could easily kill or be killed right now without a single emotion.
A police officer meets me at my door. “You Armando Rossi?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looks at the officer who brought me up. “Has he been patted down?”
“Yes, sir, he’s clean.”
“Can I see some ID?”
I produce my wallet and the ID card I got last week, since my license has been revoked. He pulls out a notepad and pencil and copies down my information. “Can you tell me what happened here?”
I shake my head. “No, sir. I was away.”
“What do you think happened?” he snaps, obviously irritated by me. He’s already made some judgement about me, and I’m sure it wasn’t generous.
“I think…” I look around at my apartment. There are bullet holes in every wall. The glass in the artwork Marco had hung is shattered, covering the floors. The flat screen is busted all to hell. A giant spider web of cracks run through the window that overlooks the street, but the glass hasn’t fallen in or out.
Yet.
Fluff from the sofa pushes from the upholstery. Marco already told me what he heard and saw, so it’s easy to picture it. Some guys busted in and fired hundreds of rounds from a semi-automatic weapon into my place. “I think someone wants me dead.”
