Page 66 of The Crowned Garza
“So… I know it’s not my place and all,” I start tentatively, “but don’t you think Iseppa’s a little too unhinged to put in charge?”
His answering chuff speaks volumes. He knows it’s a bad idea.
“Iseppa is exactly like Papa,” he says after a bit. “That’s why they fear her.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Not if I’m trying to alter howLa Cosa Nostrado things here and is perceived.”
I’m so confused. “I don’t get it, then.”
Silence stretches as I allow him to take the time to decide what he wants to divulge or not.
“Put simply,” he says after a while, “tonotappoint Iseppa would mean to choosela famigliaover the Garzas.”
Oh.Oh. He would have to assume his position as don. He would have to leave Red Cage. Leave us.Leave me.
He had a choice to make and he chose us. At the potential detriment of his own empire, he chose ours.
“Iseppa and I have an understanding,” he offers. “She won’t carry out any extreme actions without my approval.”
I snort at that and he chuckles.
EvenIknow that’s crock.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t given her as much power as she thinks.”
Knowing him, I don’t think he would have. There’s no doubt he has multiple contingencies in place in case she decides to go rogue.
“Well, you know better. It’s your world,” I say. “I was only wondering about her because she comes off like a bit of a psycho.”
“Grazie,Tillie, for being easy to talk to…about this.” He emits a sigh that resonates with relief. “You’re…” He shakes his head and mutters something in Italian too low for me to hear.
“Who do you normally talk to?”
“Adamo.”
Balancing two completely different lives and having no one but an uncle all the way in Italy to talk to about it? No wonder he’s so tense all the damn time.
Looking over at him, I itch to reach out and run my nails along his jaw, to unbuckle my seat belt, lean over, and press my lips against the corner of his mouth. But I refrain. I’m learning that pace is everything with him. Inches over miles. “I’ll be your person if you need me, Saint. I’ll be here.”
We drive in silence for a while, until we get to a red light.
He throws his head back against the headrest and grips the steering wheel with both hands. Tightly. And a strange groan, like a mixture of pain, anger, and frustration, reverberates from his chest.
Abruptly, he accelerates. But then just as suddenly slams on the brakes, jolting us forward.
One beat, two beats, three beats pass with me watching him, assessing instead of questioning. On beat four, he spins the car around in the middle of the street, screeching tires and all, which sets off a chorus of blaring horns. He swerves into traffic on the other side, then careens off the main through a gap between two houses with a sandy path, which leads to the beach.
Saint brakes at the end of the path, parks, and stares down at the steering wheel.
“Just…” he mutters after several seconds, opening his door. “Just give me a minute.”
With that, he gets out and strides to the beach, ripping off his tie as he goes.
There have been times when I’ve thought,“this man’s a psychopath.”And there are times, like now, when I think he’s just human. Cut him and he bleeds.
My thoughts on the type of human he is oscillate because he’s so inconsistent and indeterminable. It’s impossible to get a grasp.
