Page 16 of Made Man

“Hold up,” I pant, scrunching my toes to keep my busted sandal on my foot.

Wyatt drags me faster. Behind us, Grandpa Ray chuckles and then grunts as he bends over to pat down a corpse. He acts like he hasn’t slowed down any in his old age, but he’s going to wait for the younger guys to do the heavy lifting. A rush of fondness warms my heart. I’m not surprised he appeared unexpectedly to bail me out. He’s been double-checking locked doors and going over my mechanic’s work and doing surprise inspections on my bodyguards my whole life.

Now, Wyatt, on the other hand—that was a surprise. I have no idea what he’s going to do next. My heart beats faster. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. I’ve been in a few sticky situations over the years, but I’m by no means accustomed to it.

Grim-faced, Wyatt shoves me into the passenger seat, circles the vehicle, and slides behind the wheel. He’s breathing like he’s run a race. He stares for a second at the console like it’s alien technology before he shakes himself off, shifts into reverse, andbacks up the twenty yards down the alley and out to the street in a perfectly straight line. He always could drive.

I sink into the leather upholstery and flashback to Wyatt’s car in high school, his dad’s old BMW with the window that wouldn’t roll all the way down and the french fry smell that never went away, even after Wyatt had it detailed.

I glance over at his cute little stomach. Maybe the smell never went away because he was always replenishing it. My mouth curves, and my heart somehow melts and aches at the same time.

He didn’t let me go. He saved me.

“A bronze medal, eh?”

He grunts. I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it, but I guess shooting isn’t as big as gymnastics or swimming or track.

“And now you direct analytics, strategically?”

“Shut up, Mira.” Wyatt is holding the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are as white as his face is gray. At least it’s not green. The first time I killed a man, I puked my guts out.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer; he just keeps driving the speed limit, hunched forward in his seat, scrupulously obeying all traffic laws until we’re out of downtown and entering the neighborhood where we grew up.

“My dad’s not home. He and Mom are in Greece.”

“I’m not taking you there.” He doesn’t elaborate.

I cross my arms and settle back, watching the familiar homes and their meticulous, landscaped yards go by. When he turns onto Canterbury Lane, I figure out where he’s taking us. Homestead Park. It’s a Revolutionary War-era property that they’ve turned into the county’s historic society. The wooded acres around the old house and barn are a public park with hiking trails and a tractor tire playground. My mother brought me here all the time when I was little.

Wyatt would bring me here, too, when I convinced him to take me for a drive. He was never fully comfortable taking me away from the neighborhood. I told him that Mom would cover for me, but he was always intimidated by my dad. Who wasn’t?

I guess that’s why I could never really blame Wyatt. At the end of the day, my dad is Dario Volpe, consigliere of the Corso syndicate, and more to the point, a genuine psychopath. Wyatt would never have been a match for him, and I didn’t see then what I can see clearly now—Wyatt doesn’tneedto be as hard as Dad.I am.

I sneak a glance over at him as he hops the curb onto the grass to weave around the boom gate blocking the entrance. He pulls into a spot in the dark, empty parking lot, his expression grave as hell.

He yanks up the emergency brake, and for a minute, he stews in silence. I wait. Wyatt never would talk before he was ready.

Finally, he glares over, his brown eyes gone black. “Why would you go out there alone with him, Mira? Jesus!”

He loses it and pounds the wheel with his fists. Good thing it’s an older model.

When he’s done, his shoulders heave as he drags in a ragged breath. “You could’ve been killed, Mira. Fuck!” He slams the steering wheel again, open palmed.

I stare at him, scrunched motionless against the passenger door. I’m not worried about getting hit—Wyatt would never hurt me—but I want to memorize every second of freakout as his brain pieces together what could have happened. I don’t care that it’s not healthy, well-adjusted love. What use would I have for that with who and what I am?

The feelings playing out on Wyatt’s stubborn, honest face are tormented and more instinct than anything, but it’s love, too, all the same. And it’s identical to the love I carry inside me for him. Still. Always.

“Wyatt,” I say softly and reach for him.

He’s quicker than me. He grabs me first, digging his fingers into the flesh of my upper arms as he hauls me over the middle console and out the driver’s side door.

“Wyatt?”

“Shut up, Mira,” he growls, flinging the back door open and throwing me in. I land on the bench seat and bounce. Yet again, I lose my broken sandal.

He follows me in, trapping me on my back.

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