Page 41 of The Wicked
“No… no,youshould live your life. Leave the four walls of this—thiscursedlibrary—leave the freaking books with their fake words and lies woven to twist your mind into a fucking web of unrealistic scenarios and fucking socialize. Talk to real people. Go to real places. And for once in your life, don’t be a mastermind.” He breathed, watching me as if pleading for his words to sink in.
The silence stretched for a few seconds before I responded.
“I’m good.”
His shoulders sagged. “You need therapy.”
“Please.” I got up from the stool and walked to the nearest shelf. “You see these books, Mancini? They’re the only therapy I need. Whenever I read them, it’s like my sister’s here, reading them to me.”
“But she’s not.” Pity softened his voice.
I ignored it.
“Mariana loved reading books. She’d spend so much money on the little books she could get without our father knowing. He never liked them. Thought they were silly. My mother neverobjected to his reasoning. She never objected to many of his twisted thoughts and actions. It was probably her only flaw. Aside from that, Mother was perfect,” I said, picking up a book from the shelf.
“I always teased Mariana because she loved filling her head up with these romance books. As you called them… fake scenarios, I did that too. And she would glare at me so fiercely I’d cower.”
“Marino—”
“When Mariana died, I created this little library. I bought every single book she had ever wanted to read.” I brought the spine of the book to my view. “And engraved her name into the spine of these hardcovers. I swore to myself that I’d read it all on her behalf.” My thumb grazed the spine before I placed it back on the shelf and turned to Angelo.
“I don’t have time to socialize, to make friends, and to talk to real people. I’d rather spend every free minute reading words Mariana would have loved to read. So yes, you have nothing to worry about; I am not dying until I read every single thing on this shelf. I will have slip-ups. I will make mistakes.” I raised my sleeve to my forearm, pointing to the bandaged wound. “I’ll hurt myself because, for me, that’s my normal. That’s my life and the way it is. I’m not spiraling; it’s just me. It’s normal for me.”
Angelo sighed. “It’s not normal to want to hurt yourself, Marino. Or to give yourself a death date… or a fucking timeline. It’s—you need help—at least, get it for the books you might not be able to read if you slip, make a mistake, and never come back from it.”
“That won’t happen.”
“It almost did. And if it weren’t for me, you’d be dead.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what my sister said the first time she attempted it. And it happened again, and again, and again until she didn’t live to give me the same excuse.”
I am not his sister.
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to pretend to know what goes through that head of yours. I don’t even want to imagine how it must have felt to have everyone who’s ever heard your name believe you’re some killer. But I want you to know I understand what it feels like to be too late. The guilt. The pain. The grief you can’t bring yourself to feel. You were too late, and I know how your father twisted the whole shit in his favor. But you’ve got to know that none of it was your fault.”
“Your advice means nothing, Mancini. I am not your sister.”
“I know—”
“I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“You have to come to terms with—”
“I amdonetalking about this.”
Almost as if the universe were listening, Casmiro walked into the room with a scowl, shrugging off his jacket, and throwing it carelessly on the table. “The amount of money lost today is fucking unforgivable. These Street people have no control,” he said, helping himself to a drink at the bar, sneaking a glance at Angelo.
I walked to the table, picked up his jacket, and hung it on the clothes valet.
“Have you tightened the security?” Angelo asked him.
“Yes. Those rats knocked them clean, locked them up, and stole from them. They didn’t deserve that briefcase.”
“She won.” I walked to the bar area.
Casmiro got two extra glasses, filling them up for Angelo and me. “I don’t trust her.”
