Page 127 of Rosetti Family New York
I want to ask how much he knows. I want to ask if he’s testing me.
What I say is, "I'd rather not."
"Why?"
It hangs between us, the question and my hesitation. I fidget with the mug and press my fingers to the warmth like it can thaw the frost in his words.
"I don’t want to meet the chemist." My voice is thin.
"I want you to," he says.
"But why—"
He stands abruptly, pushing the chair back. It scrapes across the floor. "Let’s go," he says, turning away, heading to the front door.
I follow him, each step more uncertain than the last. He takes my coat and holds it for me. I shrug into it, biting my lip.
It’s the coat he bought for me, the Italian one I wore to my father’s yesterday. Luxurious and soft, heavy on my shoulders. "What if I refuse?" I ask, testing.
His eyes darken. I know the answer.
I sigh and draw the fur tighter around me. It smells expensive. It smells like him.
We’re silent on the drive, the car warm and fast. Outside, New York is all gray skies and concrete. Crowds of people in dark coats, black umbrellas stabbing at the air. I watch them pass, watch the city blur around me.
When I can't stand the quiet anymore, I break it with my voice.
"Are you done with me?" It comes out too soft, too quick.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. "I'm not."
His words hold me, but I don't know how long I can believe them. We pull up to the dilapidated warehouse. The knot in my chest tightens, a hard, urgent pulse.
"I’ll stay in the car," I say before he can argue.
"No."
"Yes," I insist. "Please. Just this once."
"Besiana—"
"I don’t want to go inside." I twist the coat in my lap. I know I'm being a coward, but I don't care. If Clara lets on she’s already met me, it will raise questions I can’t answer without giving away my part in the warehouse raid. "Please."
I watch him struggle with it, watch the hesitation. The suspicion. He’s searching my face, the way he did last night, like he’s waiting for me to lie.
His hand lingers on the door handle. "Fine," he says, and his voice is clipped, harsh. Like it pains him to give in. "Stay here. Don't move."
The door shuts hard, and he beeps the doors locked. I see him in the rearview mirror, his broad shoulders, his quick, determined stride. I’m not used to men walking away from me. I watch until he disappears, the dark suit of him swallowed by the brighter bodies on the street.
I slump back against the seat and press my fingers to my temple. The panic fades, replaced by another fear, just as insistent, just as big. My father’s words press against the inside of my skull:
"There are consequences to every choice, Besiana."
Each word is a bullet. Each word is a weight around my neck. I want to scream at Baba to shut up, but he isn't here. Just my own thoughts, my own relentless mind. And my father's words. There are consequences to every choice, that much has never been clearer. When I chose to betray Domenico. When I chose to betray my father. When I chose to let myself believe Dom wanted me for more than a peace deal and a body to bury his secrets in.
Now, I have betrayed everybody I was ever close to and have nobody left. Baba also warned me about that:
"Betrayal has a way of catching up to you, Besiana."
