Page 22 of The Mafia Bachelor

Concern flashes across her face, but she nods.

“There’s a story that I murdered the cat of one of our enemies, and painted the number of the devil over his car, his door, and in his house. And that I left the head on his bed, and the body of his cat in his fridge.”

Her eyes go wide, and this time it’s not momentary fear. It’s disgust and horror.

The old feeling of helplessness rises in me, and even after so many years, I have to squash it.

Remind myself that we dealt with Camden decades ago. That I was the one who manipulated and killed until the conditions were right for a coup from within. And it was me who provided cover for them.

“Did you really do it?” she questions softly.

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t ask that.” They assume the worst of me, and that has saved me from having to do much to enhance and maintain my bloodthirsty reputation. “I think you might be the first one.”

She’s silent. Her big eyes waiting.

I sigh. “I was fourteen. Camden was causing trouble for every mafia in London, and had already shown me—the kid of a lesser mafia, and Irish to boot—who was in charge. It was a painful lesson, and I was angry. I started hanging around Camden, gathering information. And because I was on my own, and an eejit, I befriended this cat. It just strolled right up to me one night, and demanded to be petted.”

She’s clearly confused, but gives a half smile. “The cat distribution system was working?”

“It was a black cat. Skinny.” The memory is bitter-sweet. “Adopted me, it did. Night after night. I began to bring it food, and it would head butt me like I was its own personal vending machine for treats and scritches. I called her Catto. Not very original.”

There’s no happy ending to this story, so Avery just looks at me.

“The kingpin then was pure bad, but also religious. Catholic.” The flame of anger twists through me anew. “I think he thought the cat was a bad omen. Or maybe he’d seen me with it, somehow.”

She shakes her head, as though to deny what comes next.

“One night, Catto was crossing the road to get to me, and his massive Range Rover came along.” I pause. “He accelerated. It was no accident.”

“No,” she breathes.

“Didn’t stop. And when I picked up that warm, soft, bleeding body, I was…” I have to swallow down the emotion. “It didn’t matter that Camden had tortured me, and half the other men in London. Probably most of us deserved it. But that little cat had done nothing wrong. I held her as she died.”

“I’m so sorry.” The pain on Avery’s face is a sweeter reflection of what was in my heart at the time. Where mine turned to vengeance, hers is just sadness.

“I used her blood to paint the devil’s number on every surface I could see. I was small, and quick. When someone came out of the house to investigate—there were plenty of cameras around the Camden compound—I snuck in, and I left my cat’s body in the fridge. Her head went on the sofa. I was an eejit, but I didn’t have a death wish. Wasn’t going to get trapped upstairs.”

“That’s…” She’s lost for words. But her poor little heart has been captured.

“Grizzly?” I suggest.

“The weirdest combination of cold-blooded and poetic that I’ve ever heard.” Her eyes dance. There isn’t pity in them—the reason I’ve never told this story to anyone—or horror.

Avery understands me. Why I did something disgusting, and why I’ll do more things that would turn a normal person’s stomach. Why being the Devil of Archway is worthwhile to me.

I have an ache in my chest that I can’t explain.

“Avery…” It’s me that’s left without words this time. I don’t know how to deal with these emotions, and the presence of my parents nearby should make me more cautious. Forty years, and I’ve never felt anything like this.

“What?” She blinks at me.

“I can see myself falling in love with you.” It’s out before I can stop it, as though she’s bringing out the spontaneity in me that usually only shows in blood.

“Because I think a story about a cat is poetic?” she laughs.

“Because you’re you.” Clever, sweet, understanding, and far braver and more than she gives herself credit for. I’m falling for her. Hard.

I think it might already be too late.