My Tragic Mafia Life | ✔️

75

Dante slammed the doors shut behind them.

Josephine whirled, not caring where they were, just that he dragged her here. "How dare you touch me like that—"

"How could you leave me?" One look at him and she knew. The rage he had was just a facade to mask his hurt. But now that they were alone, his true feelings broke like a treacherous whisper. "After everything we went through. Do I—I mean nothing to you?"

Josephine was silent. She didn't know how to explain that this decision wasn't for him or for anyone else. It was selfish, and it was for her. Because sometimes, it was okay to care about no one but yourself. If that made her horrible, fine. But she would never stay in this place again.

Even if it meant hurting him.

"What is this place?" She asked instead, turning to see. The room was small, ceiling groaning under three chandeliers, their lights refracting and reflecting on the hardwood underneath their feet. Josephine could be on the other end of the room in four strides, maybe three.

"Just another office, " Dante muttered, looking at the small desk cramped over in the corner.

And in the middle of a wall, a window cut out into the garden.

Where Houston was going to be burned.

She went quiet again.

Dante mistook her silence as a refusal to speak. "So you're leaving me." The way he said the words sounded as if he was trying to convince himself it was a lie. Just another fable. But the way he looked at her suggested that in his heart he knew it was the truth. "How could you?"

"Can you blame me?" Suddenly, a spike of bitterness went through her tongue. "It's not like I can trust you." So many things he had lied about, refused to say.

Dante said, "The thing with Camillo was only a one time thing—"

That was the wrong thing to say because a laugh bellowed out of her. "Who's to say you won't do it again?" So many times it had happened.

"I won't. Let me prove it to you." Please, his eyes seemed to say. Stay with me.

One chance was enough. "You had all the time in the world when we were together."

Dante broke away from her stare. And it was clear from the look in his eyes—the sorrow, the hurt, the anger—that it wasn't enough for him. But Josephine was tired, and every explanation out of her felt like a drain. Nothing was ever enough for him. Camillo's alliance, Beatriz's trauma, her own wailing.

Josephine couldn't keep staring at him. Instead, her eyes went out that window, into the garden, where a crowd had begun to gather. No, a mob. Bloodthirsty for their killer to be hung and drawn, flesh burned for glory.

She couldn't bear to keep looking at it.

He said, "You can't seriously blame this on me."

"Why not, Dante?" She roared, the words shattering out of her. Because in a way, she did. She truly did. "Everything that's happened was because of you. I got involved in everything because of you. Everything is fucked up. And the moment I try to do something for myself you lash out."

Dante snapped. "So leaving us while Houston dies is doing something for yourself?"

Josephine flinched. "It's my only way out." She knew it sounded pathetic.

"From me?" He said. Leaving was cruel. He feathered out an angry growl. "You told her we were working together."

"To prevent you from going to war." She spat. "You're welcome."