Celeste;
The blame's on me. The fault's on me. The guilt's on me.
I repeat the mantra in my head like it'll spare me from my self-induced anger.
It doesn't work. Not at all.
Shifting my attention to the side mirror, I see Caruso saying something to Micheal Angelo, but it doesn't look like a simple exchange.
The latter has his head lowered, his fists at his sides, rigid. And tension seems to radiate from Caruso's shoulders, veins standing out in his neck as he mutters what I assume are clipped threats.
They end the exchange with Micheal Angelo nodding once, and the other two men bowing as he walks away from them.
I look away, leaning into the seat and adjusting my legs, bringing my knees closer, tucked beneath my chin.
Caruso opens his door and gets in, his hair still rough and sticking out ruggedly. Blood-stained shirt and jeans, the scent still clinging to him.
And perhaps to me too.
The thought only fuels the anger I've been trying to suppress.
