Kissing the Killer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Barone Crime Family) by B. B. Hamel Page A

back to this house.
    But there was no movement, and I didn’t have much time to waste. I had to make this fast, and there was no reason to sit around all day wondering about it.
    So I got my ass out of the car and hustled down the block. The neighborhood was quiet as usual, and I was able to get into the backyard without any issues.
    As I moved across the yard, I suddenly had that feeling again. Someone was watching me, someone close. I stopped and crouched down, listening and watching, but there was nothing. I could hear only cars and birds and nothing else.
    I was losing it.
    I stood up and shook it off, heading toward the house. The back door was still open, so I slipped inside.
    It smelled like fucking shit. It had smelled bad when we first went in, and again when I went back for her stuff, but now the smell had ripened. It was musty and dank, and I guessed there was a leaking pipe or the roof had a hole in it.
    I needed to find a fucking photo album. I skipped digging through the piles of shit downstairs and went right up into her room. I pushed open the door and looked around.
    Before this room had been just another room, but now it felt like something more. I felt like I was trespassing on her life. I moved slowly through her dresser, looking for a photo album. I found old receipts, loose pictures, books, socks, underwear, and the usual detritus of a person’s life.
    She had lived in this room for so long. It was her only place, and I bet she had locked that door every night against her father. Probably didn’t stop him more often than not, and I felt good that I had put a fucking bullet in the bastard.
    I went through her other dresser and found nothing. More underwear and clothes, but no album. I went into her closet and began to dig through the back.
    Tucked into the back, underneath a stack of shoes, was a single box. I grabbed it and pulled it out, flipping the lid open.
    Inside were small trinkets: a lighter, a notebook, and a photo album buried at the very bottom.
    I dug it up and flipped it open.
    The pictures were of people I didn’t recognize, but one woman appeared again and again. It must have been her mother when she was younger; I recognized some shared features.
    I couldn’t help but flip through the whole thing, fascinated. It was Emma, but it wasn’t Emma. This woman seemed happy and normal, not at all the kind of person who would end up in a house like this. She had friends and was smiling in every picture, her teeth white and straight. She was beautiful, though not as beautiful as her daughter.
    As I looked through it, I understood. If I’d had something like this of my mother when she was young and happy, I would have done anything to keep it. I understood why she was willing to risk herself for it, and probably why she wanted to do it herself.
    She wasn’t the type of woman to rely on others for things. But she was going to have to rely on me if she was getting through this alive.
    I tucked the album into my jacket and stood up. I felt like I understood her a little bit better, like I had a glimpse into her private self. Yeah, this was a risk, but it was a good risk. It was an important risk.
    She didn’t want to forget who she was.
    I left her room and her past stuck back in that place, all the horror and sadness lingering in the corners. I hoped the album would bring a little light back into her days.

12

Emma
    H e was gone for a few hours and I had the apartment to myself. I was beginning to get used to the idea of staying in this apartment alone, starting to forget my past life.
    Which was exactly why I wanted that photo album. It was the last thing I had that really connected me to my past. Once this was over, I was moving on and forgetting all about that nightmare.
    My father was dead and rotting, and I was happy about it. But that didn’t mean I wanted to give up everything I was. I wanted to hold on to the parts I cared about and cut away all the rest.
    The television was on loud,