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“He’s um… dealing.”
“Dealing?” Like drugs or something else?
She continued to cook with her back to me, cracking two eggs. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I told you, considering you’re part of the mafia now,” she said lightly.
Hardly, but okay.
“But he’s dealing with his… impulses the best way he can. Grave captured a member of the Irish in our territory, so they’re taking care of it. That usually seems to help.”
My stomach soured as I said, “Oh.”
“We have some strife with the new mafia in Vancouver. They’re buying up all the land and disrupting our shipments. Father’s goal is to buy them out or force them out. But next week is the anniversary of Raven’s death—our mother, too. That’s not exactly helping his impulses, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
My heart sank. The anniversary of their deaths was next week? No wonder he’d reacted the way he did. Besides my guilt, something else snagged my attention.
His impulses. Is that what they called them? I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but she’d said it twice now, as if it were common knowledge. What did that mean, exactly?
“Do their deaths bother you?” I asked instead.
She shrugged. “I was four and had been too little to recall them. So no, it doesn’t really bother me much. I think that’s why he sent me over here. I’m the least fucked up out of the bunch.”
That’s why he sent me over here.
Meaning, she’d been ordered to keep an eye on me while he was torturing another mafia member. Naomi chuckled light-heartedly and plated our food as if it were any other day before sliding one over to me. Avocado toast with a fried egg.
“What do you mean by his impulses?” I asked, and began to eat.
I watched her expression as an explosion of flavor bursted on my tongue, thoroughly surprised by how good it was. Naomi winced like she shouldn’t have said anything.
“Oh, uh… shit,” she muttered and gave a tight smile. “He’s um, usually one for blunt honesty, so I figured he’d already told you. He has violent urges, sometimes. Our therapist claims he’s on the spectrum for antisocial personality disorder. It’s not his fault. Father forced him to do some pretty awful things—” Her nose scrunched. “—and paired with the death of… Well, it led him down a path of destruction. I’m not sure it’s what Father intended.”
Antisocial personality disorder.
The words echoed in my mind. I knew the term—had learned bits and pieces of psychology from Amelia a few years ago. Could he feel anything? Manic had already mentioned that he felt no remorse, but pain and pleasure. Could he feel love?
I blinked at the thought and finished my food, setting the plate aside as bile clogged my throat. I soaked in the details of their family history like a sponge.
Maybe if I knew more, I’d learn how to navigate my current situation. Manic’s violent tendencies made sense, though. He looked as if he were struggling last night.
Did he really not want to hurt me? I hardly believed that, but my nerves burned with shame and a hint of curiosity. A burning need to figure him out.
My brows furrowed. “What happened to them?”
“That’s something I won’t tell you,” she said curtly and grabbed my empty plate to place in the sink. Then her voice softened to something a little lighter. “If Manic feels like sharing, he can. That’s not my story to tell. Plus, I’d probably shared too much with you, anyway. But don’t let him fool you, he means well. He’s just doing what Father ordered so he can leave.”
Distaste laced her tone, and my heart skipped. Leave?
I wanted to ask, but she turned to the remaining paper bag on the counter to pull out a handful of flowers. My heart raced at the sight of half a dozen peonies.
Each pink and white petal was fluffy and curved, dancing away from the center as if they’d just awoken for the day. Their delicate fragrance hit me with something like nostalgia and a surge of electricity to my chest. They were very similar to the ones my admirer had delivered after sabotaging my dates. I blinked hard, my throat too dry.
Was that a coincidence?
“Where did you get those?” I breathed.
“Oh.” Naomi smiled and cut the stems with… were those scissors? A potential weapon. “I grow them in our greenhouse so I can have them all year. I hate being limited to only spring and summer. Do you like them? They were mom’s favorite—or so I was told.”
Goosebumps of awareness pricked my skin, but just as I was about to reply, the elevator doors pinged open again.
