Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 31
I letthe silence filling the Riccis’ living room soak into my skin for a moment, appreciating it while I can, aware that Carmen has a knack for shattering things.
If hearts were made of glass, the remaining pieces of mine would be jagged and splintered, wholly incapable of being glued back together.
Her round eyes swing between Elena and me, like the pendulum I broke weeks ago, trying to decide which of us to rip into first. Tension coils tight inside my stomach, stealing the breath from my lungs as it takes up more space than necessary.
“Why don’t you two have a seat,” Carmen suggests, motioning toward the couch we just got up from.
Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, making my hand twitch against Elena’s side, itching to make the sound stop once and for all.
“No thanks.” My mouth parts to say the same thing, but it’s Elena’s words that fill the room, earning a shocked look from her mother.
“Did Kallum ruin my sweet, innocent daughter’s manners?” Carmen says, glaring at me. “Have a seat, bambina. Show your mother some respect.”
“The way you’ve respected my marriage by spreading rumors and lying to the tabloids about its nature?”
Frowning, Carmen says nothing for a beat, and I can practically see the cogs churning in her brain, working out a way for her to turn the tables and make herself out to be the victim.
She’s got that fucking glint in her eye; the one that flared to life each time she’d show up at whatever house I was renting at the time, sobbing with mascara smeared down her cheeks, begging me to forgive her for being weak when it came to her husband.
It was always ‘The children need their papá,’ and ‘He’ll hunt me down and kill me if I leave.’ Never just the truth, which was that she never intended to leave Rafael in the first place.
She had her cake, and she wanted to eat it, too.
“I’m not sure what your sisters have told you about my reaction to your... whirlwind wedding, but I’m sure it’s been greatly exaggerated.” Carmen settles in an overstuffed armchair, crossing one leg over the other, strategically rolling her ankle to make her leg appear longer through the slit in her robe. “Perhaps if you’d answered even one of my calls or texts, Elena, you’d have known that.”
“I have messages from you talking about how you want to rescue me,” Elena says, pulling her phone from where it’s stuffed in the cup of her bra, opening up a thread of texts. She scrolls through them, reading out loud every plea and promise from Carmen.
“Are you saying I was unwarranted, all things considered? You were uprooted from your life. Mateo was...” She drops her voice, even though no one around is going to say anything. “Dead. I was worried for your safety.”
“I was never in danger. Papá signed off on the freaking marriage certificate.”
Carmen’s wineglass pauses en route to her red lips, her eyebrows drawing down. “Scusi?”
“God, did he not tell you?” Elena asks, and I suddenly feel faint for the first time since my first hit.
Throat working as she swallows, Carmen’s eyes dart to mine, hurt reflecting there, still trying to call out to me.
“It’s true.” I shrug, ignoring the pain pooling in her irises.
Setting her glass on the coffee table in front of her, she presses her fingers to her lips, her gaze shifting, unfocusing as she gets lost in her thoughts. Probably trying to figure out how she can wield this new information against us.
“That isn’t possible,” she decides finally, with a little shake of her head. “Your father wouldn’t just allow you to marry Kallum.”
“Well, Mamá, he did, and when Kallum leaves Boston again in a few days, I’m going back with him,” Elena snaps, her body straightening like a band that’s been stretched far too thin, far too many times.
Carmen blinks. “Like hell.”
Not letting her say another word, Elena spins on her heel and trudges from the room. Seconds later, the front door bangs closed, echoing off the ceiling.
Gritting her teeth, Carmen glares at me. She pushes to her feet, and I hold up my hand, halting her. “I wouldn’t suggest coming any closer.”
“What are you going to do? Kill me?” Laughing, she runs a shaky hand through her hair, freeing some of the strands from where they’re trapped inside the collar of her robe. “Good luck getting Elena to forgive you.”
My hands vibrate, fingers flexing around empty air as I take a step forward. Usually, there isn’t much of an urge to cause harm; it’s always been more of a necessity to me, a way to maintain a certain level of respect among my peers, and, for a long time, the sole source of my income and connections.
I don’t like to take lives frivolously. It feels like cheating.
I want people to earn their demise at my hands. It makes their pleas for mercy much more delicious when they’re denied.
And while Carmen’s certainly earned her spot in Hell, at least in my book, I don’t really have a reason to snuff her out.
No matter how badly my bones ache for the chance.
“She’d learn to,” I tell her, my lips curling up at the corners. “A couple rides on my cock, and she’d forget all about her cold, vindictive bitch of a mother.”
Carmen just smirks, and the gesture infuriates me. My hair stands on end, heat rolling down my back like fire across a grassy field, while the urge to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until her eyes pop from their sockets becomes a little overwhelming.
I pinch my thigh, trying to steady my blood, reminding myself that she’s just doing it all on purpose.
“You haven’t told her, have you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll give it to you, she’s a very pliant girl. Eager and willing, the way Rafael brought her up to be. But I don’t think she’d forgive you for sleeping with her mother.”
“Tell her, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
Clicking her tongue, Carmen turns away, walking back to the armchair. She picks up her wine glass, taking a big gulp while taking a seat, crossing her legs again. “As much as I’m sure you’d love to, we both know you won’t. I know that look in your eyes, Kallum. You care about Elena. Moreover, you care what she thinks of you, and I think we both know there’s no coming back from something like this.”
When I don’t say anything to refute the matter, knowing she’ll just twist my words anyhow, she laughs, throwing her head back like this is all some big fucking joke.
“Well,” she says, taking another drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Guess you’d better get to her before I do, then.”
I contemplate the logistics of Carmen Ricci’s murder in three different ways before I stalk out of her house, intent on finding Elena. She’s tucked in the back seat of the SUV, scrolling aimlessly through her phone and complaining to Marcelline about her mother.
The window is cracked, perhaps to cool the interior now after a brief rain, and I pause before opening the door, listening quietly.
“...and honestly, she acts so prim and proper all the time, and then tonight my sister tells me she had an affair? What the hell? My mother doesn’t even like when men wear ankle socks because she says it’s immodest, but she was screwing around on my father? And wants to judge me?”
She blows out a breath, and Marcelline sits in her usual stony silence, punctuating Elena’s story with the occasional mhm.
Hooking my fingers around the handle, I yank the door open, revealing my wife with her feet propped against the opposite window, lying on her back as she stares up at her phone. She rolls her eyes toward her forehead, looking at me upside down.
“Is she still breathing?” she asks, the question a stab wound to my chest, proving Carmen right.
Elena probably won’t forgive me.
“Your mother is plenty alive,” I say, slipping my hands under her back and lifting just enough so I can slide beneath her. She grunts as I do most of the work, her body going limp and molding into mine the second I let her go.
Sighing, Elena drops her hands, pressing her phone into her chest. “That did not go the way I was hoping.”
I thread my fingers through her hair, my chest pinching for her. “I know.”
“My fault for having expectations, I guess.” Her voice catches at the end of her sentence, and she sucks down a gulp of air, rolling so she’s facing the back of the seat. “Was your mom normal?”
“Normal’s relative, I think.”
Elena hums, closing her eyes as her nose brushes the leather seat. “Well, relatively speaking, I think my mother’s insane.”
Snorting, I take a second before responding, the pinch in my heart expanding into more of a dull pang, something bold that I can’t possibly get rid of.
Because I can’t stop wondering what Elena must think of me.
Later, there’s a knock at the door of the penthouse we’re renting during our stay; Elena’s sprawled out in the bed, breathing heavily and twitching through some kind of dream, so I slip out quietly, hoping she doesn’t hear me leave.
When I open the door, I’m not at all surprised to find Rafe standing on the other side, smoking a cigar even though the hallway has a bold NO SMOKING sign.
I guess some things really don’t change.
We stand there for several beats of time, just staring at each other, until finally he breaks first.
He always breaks first.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No,” I reply flatly.
His face screws up, and he takes the cigar from his mouth, huffing a plume of smoke in my direction. “You know, you used to respect the order of things. Used to understand that I’m your boss, not the other way around.”
“You’re not my boss, Rafe. Simple as that. I haven’t done a job for you in months, nor have I been gathering intelligence, or patching up any of your men. I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That isn’t how this works,” he snaps, pointing the butt of the cigar at me. “You don’t get to just leave. There are protocols in place. Oaths that can’t be broken.”
I shrug. “Sounds like a family problem. Send them my condolences.”
“You’re not as invincible as you seem to think, Anderson. Don’t forget I made you.”
Smirking, my hand reaches for the door, and I begin to ease it shut, my quota for bullshit capped. “Oh, I won’t.”
He swears under his breath as the door clicks into place, and I stay there for a moment to see if he’s going to knock again. The old Rafe would never have let something like this go without a fight, but maybe age is catching up with him.
Or maybe he has something worse planned.
Can’t be worse than what I have planned for him, though.
I pad back to the bedroom and slip beneath the covers, propping my elbow on my pillow as I stare down at my wife, brushing a strand of sweat-soaked hair from her cheek. A text flashes across my phone screen, Violet once again declining my most recent wire transfer.
“Pride cometh before the fall,” I mutter to myself, opening the secure banking app I have set up through Ivers International, canceling every future payment I have scheduled to deposit into her account.
Then I text my grandfather’s estate attorney, telling him I’m in Boston and want to set up a meeting to dissolve the trust altogether.
