“Clair,” she said and the tears in her voice made my own throat choke. I forced back the sob and took a breath.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I promise. Can you promise you won’t call anyone?”
“I won’t call anyone,” she said. “But you have to promise me you’re okay. You’re okay, aren’t you?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I love you, Mom. I should probably go before the asshole downstairs realizes I’m talking to you.”
“Wait, someone’s there with you?”
“Some bodyguard.” I chewed my lip, remembering the man downstairs, his dark eyes and handsome face. “I don’t remember his name.”
“Just be careful,” Mom said. “And call me. And make sure you don’t do anything stupid. And keep calling me.”
“I promise, Mom,” I said. “I’m going to get this sorted out. I don’t even want all this money, I never asked for any of it.”
“Do not give it to Luciano,” she said, her voice a rough whisper. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll bleed you dry, Clair. I promise you that, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s bleeding people dry.”
I felt my hands start to shake again. I knew this was a bad idea, but I knew I had to call her sooner or later. She would’ve worried if I went another day or two without calling, and her worry might’ve turned into worse.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, and hung up before she could respond.
I stared down at my phone and felt the room vibrate around me.
It had been a long, long time since I heard my mother sound that afraid, not since I was a little girl. A memory came back to me, startling and fresh. My mother sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, although I couldn’t remember her ever smoking again. She looked down at me and reached out her hand like she was clawing at the air. I stood out of her reach, afraid of her, afraid of the look in her eyes.
“Don’t go outside today,” she said, so many years ago. I must have been thirteen or so. We were in the apartment she rented right after my dad got killed. “Don’t go outside today, do you understand?”
“Why not?” I asked back then, like an idiot. I should’ve known.
“They’re going to come, sooner or later,” she’d said.
That was the most afraid I’d ever seen my mother. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about that in so many years, and yet sitting on that bed, staring down at the phone, my hands shaking, my legs kicking, it came back to me as clear as the day it happened.
My mother was afraid, and she had every right to be. She had more reasons than most to be terrified of Uncle Luciano.
I stared at the phone, at the floor, then up to the bedroom door.
I wondered if the lock would hold if that big guy downstairs decided to come up here and break it down.
I got out of bed, walked to the bureau, and pushed it across the floor. It made loud scraping sounds as the wood dragged, but it felt like it was empty. The Matryoshka dolls fell over, rolled along the top, hit the floor and bounced a few times, before settling under the bed.
I wedged the bureau in front of the door and stepped back, my heart racing.
That would slow him down at least.
I threw myself down on the unfamiliar bed and buried myself under the pillows, hoping maybe if I wished it hard enough, I’d open my eyes back home, and this would all be a dream.
But the smell of old moth-eaten comforters and fresh paint lingered, and I went nowhere.3LucaThe house was quiet for the most part. I kept my feet kicked up, watched some golf, and the only time I heard a peep from the girl was when it sounded like she rearranged some furniture up in that room of hers.
Not that I cared. The girl could rip the place apart if she wanted to, so long as she stayed inside and didn’t make trouble.
A few peaceful hours passed, and soon peaceful turned into boring.
As I flipped through the channels, finally settling on a college basketball game, I heard a door slam shut outside the house. I sat forward, instantly on edge, my hand on the Glock I had slipped into the waistband of my jeans.
Footsteps on the steps. Someone stood at the door, turned the knob, pushed it open.
I had my gun out and up, finger on the trigger, as Roberto stepped inside.
“Shit,” he said, flinching away.
I lowered the gun, took my finger off the trigger.
“What the fuck, Roberto?” I asked. “You trying to get shot?”
“What the fuck yourself, Luca,” he said, his voice an angry growl. “You can’t just pull your gun.”
“You didn’t identify yourself. The Don said my job’s to keep the girl safe.”