Page 94 of Souls and Sorrows

Either way, by the time we walk into the restaurant and spot Kal looming in a booth at the back, I have very little opinion of Jonas. I suppose, if my sister loves him, he can’t be that bad, but I’m not really interested in pursuing more from him.

If he wants to help out, great. We won’t be drinking beers together and watching football anytime soon.

Weaving through the small, circular tables and wooden chairs, Jonas walks directly up to his old friend, stopping just short of the booth. The man looks like a fucking vampire, sitting there in his trench coat, with his dead eyes staring at the table as he says something to himself.

I follow Jonas, my gut shrinking as I realize the doctor isn’t alone—there’s a small child sitting opposite him, coloring on a napkin with a red crayon.

The doctor’s jaw clenches when he notices us. “Gentlemen,” he greets, his voice completely devoid of any emotion. “I’m busy.”

“This’ll only take a second, mate,” Jonas says, then scowls, turning to look at me. “Right?”

I shrug. “I guess that depends on what he tells me.”

Kal’s hand curls around a white ceramic mug, and he brings it slowly to his lips, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. The movement reveals a small pomegranate tattoo on his wrist, and I school my surprise at the thought of him allowing someone to drag a needle through his skin.

He keeps his dark gaze on the little girl in front of him, as if unwilling to take his eyes off her for even a moment.

“What can I help you with, Cassius Primrose?”

“I’d like to know why you’re helping my wife cover up dead bodies.”

Clearing his throat, Kal sits up a little straighter in his seat. Jonas shoots me a dirty look, then reaches for the girl. “Q, why don’t you come with Uncle Jojo and we’ll go put some change in what might be the last jukebox in the entire world?”

Kal whips his hand out, barring him from touching what must be his daughter. She glances up, her black curls falling into her face, big doe eyes seeking out her father. Part of me expects her to say something, but she doesn’t, instead just shrugging and going back to her coloring.

Gritting his teeth, Kal slides from the booth, then grabs Jonas’s shoulder and directs him to where he just got up from.

“You stay there and do not let her out of your sight.”

Jonas gives him a lazy salute, already bending down to talk to the girl about the snake-haired creature she’s drawing. Kal motions for me to follow him to the patio seating out front, and I do, pushing my glasses higher up on my nose as the cool sea air whips against them.

Out here is far less crowded, likely due to the chilly temperature, so I suppose we’re freer to speak.

“There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do to make my wife happy,” he says after a beat. “Not to mention safe, which means taking care of potential liabilities.”

“And Ariana is one—”

“Her occasionally impulsive decisions are. Before a couple of months ago, it was normal adolescent rebellion—ignoring phone calls, partying constantly, spending all of the money her grandmother left behind after she passed. That was manageable. But then, one day, she called me out of nowhere, a week or so after she began ghosting her sisters, and said she needed my help.”

I stand there, processing his words.

“Obviously, the murder of two prominent figures in the underground was going to be a fucking nightmare even if Vitus never discovered who was to blame. So, I stepped in and cleaned up the way I would any other job. The way Ididfor her father for most of my life.”

Ah, yes. Kal worked for the Riccis from age thirteen until his thirties, around the time he and Elena married. I don’t know the exact details about that arrangement, except that his employment ended around a short time before his wife turned her family into the Feds.

“Is this something I should be concerned about?” I’m not sure why I ask because I’m not sure I care either way.

I’m afraid I’m in far too deep for that.

“No.” He says it so suddenly, with such assurance, that I can’t help but blink at him.

Amusement flashes in his eyes.

“You’re not afraid of her, are you?” When I don’t immediately answer, he chuckles. “Good. You should be. The Ricci daughters are a terrifying species. Sirens that draw you in and then devour you whole.”

My expression flattens.

“Look”—he turns, glancing inside the restaurant, likely to keep an eye on his child— “murder fundamentally changes you. It’s not possible to come back from that the same person you once were, and sometimes, it feels good. Sometimes, you don’t want to come back.”

---