Page 41 of Break Me Beautifully

"It's cold."

"Stop lying to me."

"Stop asking me things I can't tell you!"

"You can!" I shout, throwing my arms out wide. "The only thing stopping you is this weird idea you're protecting me! I don't need you to protect me, Marshall! I'm not naive, I know the world is full of bad things and bad people. Did you forget who my family is?" That makes him scowl, his head lowering so I can't see his face in all the shadows. "My parents raised me with secrets around every corner. Stop treating me like I'm porcelain!"

"Fine." He says it softly, and that's scarier than if he'd yelled. His head stays down as he speaks, each word clipped, like he's cutting them out with a knife. "The gloves are so I don't leave any evidence behind."

A slight pounding begins in my eardrums. "Like fingerprints?"

"Yes," he responds, bringing his hands out of his pockets. One of them holds a gun, and I know it's the weapon I felt in his jacket the night we kissed in the elevator. "Justice only goes one way in the eyes of the law. The only protection you have if you commit a crime is to not get caught."

"What kind of crimes?" I ask shakily.

Finally he looks at me. His eyes are matte, like the light can't reach them, like it never really could. "How many times do you have to learn that I'm the Devil, sweet girl?What crimes?Are you wishing I'd list them for you, let you weigh them to see which is worse than the others?"

In a blur of black he crowds me against the cold wall. The sleek texture of his gloves cradles my cheeks, pushes my chin up, forces me to look at his furious face. The gun's barrel is strangely warm where it digs into my temple. It could go off any moment. I could die here in this alley. "Marshall ..."

"Tell me you want to know," he seethes, his nose grinding on mine. "Say you're ready to let me split you apart and shred your innocent, brittle idea that I'm a good man. Go on. I'll do it if you ask. This is your chance, Leona. Do you truly want to know what I've done to make people far and wide fear me?"

I'm shaking so hard my ears are ringing. I can't feel the bricks, or the winter air, or the deadly weapon leaving pressure marks on my skin. I can only feel the panicked way he's squeezing my face in his hands as he prays for permission to ruin me. And I don't remember why I asked. And I don't know what I want the answer to be.

"Living,"I strain to say that lone word.

His grip tightens. "What was that?"

"Living or dying," I say, holding his hot stare with every iota of boldness I have left in me. "You're right. No one knows how strong they are until they have to choose. I can't live without the truth. I don't want to." Lifting my hand, I trace his scarred lip. "Tell me about this. Tell me everything. It won't destroy me to know."

The gun falls away. He glances at it, before crushing the handle like he wants to shatter it into a thousand pieces. Faster than possible he hides it back in his jacket, his hands gone from my body. I miss them.

He tugs the tip of the left glove until it slips away, exposing his bare hand. Gingerly, he traces his small facial scar. "This was from a ring. A big, gaudy ring on the knuckle of the man who used to force dogs to fight."

I'm too stunned to comment. I worry if I speak, he'll clam up.

Marshall looks at his own palm as he talks, flexing his fingers in gentle waves. "He caught me trying to free his animals. Beat the shit out of me. I got away, but not before he figured out who I was. That was my mistake, really. I don't regret trying to help the dogs, I didn't even care that he turned my face into hamburger. Getting caught, that was the big one.

"You see, he tracked me down after that. Had his goons bully my father into agreeing to pay back the debtI'dbrought on by messing up the dog ring. I told Dad he shouldn't get involved, but I was ten years old and dumb as hell. That asshole who split my lip, he worked for the Lucardo crime family. My father had to do as they asked. He had no choice. No one does once you make a deal with the mafia."

"Lucardo family?" I ask. "I've never heard of them."

"Why would you?" he says wearily. "I wishIhadn't. It was hard for me to grasp the things my father would do for them, and for what, money to pay back a debt that wasn't even his? He had this goddamn sense of duty to keep his only son safe. But he was an artist, not a killer, and it's what ended up putting him in the ground."

A gnarled pit grows inside of me, like I'm a fruit rotting from the inside out. The sadness in his eyes breaks me apart. "Marshall, that's ... my god ..."

"Should I stop?" he asks, his breath running over my skin, cooling the tears on my cheeks I didn't know were there. I shake my head, and he smiles bittersweetly. "He was extremely talented. It's amazing how much use the mob has for expensive art. My dad was their perfect tool, they wanted him on a leash as long as possible. Never a true member, though he preferred it that way. He always imagined he'd get out of their grasp someday and didn't want to rise in the ranks. His death was an accident. He got caught up in a shootout with a hair-trigger drug dealer who thought he was in the middle of a set up."

"I'm so, so sorry." It's all I can say. It's not enough.

He doesn't react, his eyes fixing on something overhead. I look up, but I don't see anything. "Ten years. He spent ten years trying to pay the debt back. There was always something else keeping the Lucardo's hooks in him. That's their trick, you know. A favor becomes a loan becomes an opportunity becomes a new favor becomes another loan, on and on. There's no way to leave. When he died, they turned to me. I was, after all, his son. My father taught me everything he knew about art, remember? The Underboss, Benson Lucardo, wanted me to become his replacement. I accepted."

"You agreed to work for them?" I ask, my voice rising. "After what happened to your father, how could you?"

He makes a fist, reading the tattoos on his wrist. "'Le mani di mio padre.'My father's hands. I have these because of him. They can create, they can help, and they can hurt. I remind myself every single day that what I do, I do for him."

"My father was a good man," he says seriously. "Benson Lucardo is a strangely sympathetic man. He seemed genuinely sad that my father was killed, even swore he'd pass on any information about the killer, though considering the number of unhinged drug dealers in this city, he didn't give me false hope. When he asked me to work for him, I don't know if Icouldhave walked away. The mafia hates dangling strings. I knew too much. I told him I'd work for him, but I wanted something in exchange." He smiles as he brushes the scar on his mouth. "It wasn't hard to convince Benson that Joshua, the dog pit owner, was drawing too much of the wrong attention, putting the Lucardo family at risk. That's what they care about the most after their precious cash, being invisible to the cops." He stops talking, watching me with fresh curiosity. "There are two things you need to join the mafia. Italian blood, which I have through my father, and to make an approved hit. I think he forgot who I was. Hard to blame him since I didn't look like a stringy ten-year-old anymore. But I reminded him before it was over."

My tongue is dry as I force my question out. "How did you do it?"

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