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This won’t bother Myla. She hasn’t been able to tolerate looking at pictures of her father since that awful night. Caleb will be the only one to notice, and he’s never up here. I’ll let the one in Caleb’s room stay. But I’m moving it, so I don’t have to look at that thing. If getting rid of these becomes an issue, I can always reach out to Dillon’s parents. While they’ve essentially cut all ties with me and the kids, I’m sure they’d send photos if I asked. So long as that’s all I’m looking for.
Dillon’s parents claimed it was too hard seeing us after their son died. The reminders of their only child too heavy for them to deal with. Growing up in a military family, I think they wereprepared in the event he lost his life on the battlefield. However, this wasn’t on their radar.
I’ve often wondered if they felt we were somehow to blame. That he was fine before we moved in. But didn’t most families live together? How could this have been our fault?
Stomping to the closet, I’m surprised to find so many items of clothing here of Dillon’s. It must’ve been sentiment that had me bring them back here, tucked away in a room most didn’t see in the light of day.
This thought causes my head to snap, landing on the bed where Luca and I made love.Fuck that. It was sex. Not love. Nothing more, nothing less.If there was any doubt, go back and replay the news, Jillian. No man who loved you would bring this into your life. Don’t let your mind trick you into believing anything else.
I thrust a couple of ties, an old army T-shirt, and Dillon’s running shoes into the bag. After doing one last pass, I move to the second floor and repeat the process. Clearing the house of negative energy feels familiar. I should’ve done a better job of it after Dillon died. It’s similar to when I was pregnant and felt the need to nest. Staying busy preparing for the baby’s arrival, tidying up, and putting everything in its place. And these men no longer have a place here. Not after what they’ve done to us.
Placing the items I’ve collected near the front door, I decide to deposit them in the big metal bin at the grocery store, where gently used items can be donated for the local thrift shop to pick up. They distribute them to the homeless shelters in the area. Might as well have something good come of this.
After putting on my tennis shoes to protect my feet, I head to the laundry room, collect the broom and dustpan, and get to work cleaning up my temper tantrum from earlier. I try to stay detached from any emotions that arise. I’m mentally exhausted. There’s no need to torture myself with this. Live and learn. Itried to get back out there, and it was a colossal fuck up. I’m not doing that again. Our little family was just fine on our own.
It feels as if sweeping the fragments of broken glass, flowers, and candy is somehow a metaphor for my life. All of those dreams I’d clung to, shattered. But what had Miley Cyrus also sung? That she could buy her own damn self flowers. And if she can do it, so can I!
Carefully pouring the pointy shards from the dustpan to the garbage, I try to avoid causing my hands to feel like my heart. A bleeding mess, slashed and torn apart.
I’ll have to find something I can drape over that mirror. It’s too heavy for me to attempt to take down. Wasn’t that a tradition after a death occurred? To cover the mirror to prevent bringing more bad luck to the family?
This thing with Luca feels every bit as much like a death as it did with Dillon. Equally as horrific. I may not have found his bloody corpse lying on the floor, but seeing him led away in handcuffs for being involved in drug trafficking is equally traumatic. Who knows what other destruction he could’ve brought here. Possibly to one of my children. And I can’t forgive him for that any more than I can forgive Dillon.
I place my hand over my chest. Now that the ridiculous pep talks are over and the reality of the evening has settled in, the pain is almost unbearable. As I try to rub the ache away, I feel it. How did I not notice this before getting in the shower?
Ripping the ridiculous pendant over my head, I storm back to the bags at the front door and fling the Saint Michael necklace inside.
“What a joke. Some protector you are.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Luca
“You get one phone call,”the officer practically spits as he leads me in the direction of the phone. I have no reason to expect it’ll be private. Or untraceable. Thinking quickly, I dial one of the people in my life I’m sure will cover their tracks and know what to do.
“Hello?”
Speaking in my native language will likely not offer any protection. They’ll find someone to translate the call. But at least it’ll make them work harder to eaves drop. So, I speak to my brother in Italian, trying to keep my voice low and unemotional. “I don’t know how long they’re giving me with this call, but I need your help.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ve been set up. The FBI stormed my shop this afternoon and arrested me on drug trafficking.” I immediately hear shuffling on the line and pray he hasn’t been on a bender. That’s the last thing I need right now, but I didn’t want to risk my calling Giovanni bringing officers to his club.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the Hanover jail, but they’ve advised I’ll probably be moved to a federal prison soon. This is punishable as a state and federal offense.”
“Shit. Don’t panic. I’ll get everyone together to figure this out. What do you know about the drugs?”
“Nothing. I’d noticed some odd shipments coming to the warehouse. The business has picked up, and it was getting more difficult to keep up with them. Initially, I thought we were being sent things I hadn’t ordered so they could overcharge us and refuse to allow us to return them. But a major distributor changed their packaging and everything checked out. When it happened again, I accepted it was carelessness. That we’d hired new staff but not properly trained them on receivables. But this was a set-up, Matteo. The federal officer told me the drug sniffing dogs located them in various shipments we’d received the other day.”
“Even if that were true, how were you on the FBI’s radar. You’ve never smuggled a fucking pack of cigarettes into the US.”
“I know, I know. I want to think it’s the Grasso family continuing to try to make trouble for ours, but Matteo?—”
“I know. This has Vincenzo Messina all over it.”
How can anyone be related to someone so evil? “Doesn’t he have enough enemies to go after?” I spit. “He has to come after his own flesh and blood?”
