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"I know," she agreed, exhaling so hard it could only be called a sigh as she tucked her head in under my chin.
"They aren't going to think of you any differently," I promised, even though I had no idea if that was true.Helen - a few months laterThey hadn't thought any differently of me, these men who frequently had blood under their fingernails.
But I thought differently of me.
Not right at first, enveloped in the loving embrace of sons who finally understood me, my roots, my motivations in life.
But when Shane found Hunt.
When he found him and dragged him home.
When we were forced by the ever-present presence of Leon to have him beat for thinking he could leave, made our sons beat the shit out of a brother they loved.
When he told us how unhappy he had been, how much he had resented being forced into a lifestyle that didn't suit him, how he had found love.
A part of my heart crumbled.
And I realized Michael had done exactly what he set out to do. He forced us to put a life sentence on the boys.
I wasn't much of a cryer.
But I sobbed in Charlie's arms that night, hating myself, hating my brother, hating this goddamn life that I had been the one to suggest in the first place.
I woke up early to Charlie still sleeping soundly.
I iced my eyelids, staring at my face until it blurred around the edges, until it looked unfamiliar.
Then I grabbed my purse, got in the car, and drove.
I made it a point never to drive past my childhood home, never to let those memories overtake me.
Helga in the kitchen making Earl Grey madeleines that I did end up making for my husband and sons.
My mother spritzing monster spray under my bed at night.
And then, of course, the much more frequent, vivid, ugly memories.
Many of which involved the man I demanded to see when I pulled into the driveway where I used to park my secondhand Firebird next to my father's and brother's newer, sparklier cars.
"Who are you?" asked one of the suited guards at the door.
"His sister," I said, voice seething, watching as he stood straighter, rushed inside to tell Michael I was there.
Leon was the one who came out to bring me in.
I was led down halls, once familiar, but redecorated to suit Michael's admittedly better taste, matching the Spanish villa style of the home, though where that should have made it warm and inviting, all I felt was coldness as I walked in.
I caught sight of a woman in the kitchen, humming as she rolled dough out on the counter, and I couldn't help but wonder if her fate would be much like Helga's - a lifetime of cleaning up blood only to end up with a bullet to the brain in thanks.
But I banked those thoughts down as I was led into what used to be my father's study, the colors deep and oppressive. Michael had torn out the bookshelves, had ripped off the wainscoting, painting the whole space an airy cream color. The floors had been stripped as well, painted a warmer maple that matched the massive executive desk he now stood behind, chin lifted, watching me enter like he was some grand king and I the lowly serf.
Which, considering how many lives he controlled - mine and my children included - wasn't all that far off.
"Helen," he greeted, waving a hand at his man to leave, closing the door behind him as he went.
"I watched my son get a beating last night," I started, voice as dead as my heart felt right then. "And did nothing to stop it."
"As per our agreement."
"Yeah, about that," I said, lifting my chin a bit. "It's not going to work for me anymore."
He started to laugh before he realized I was serious, making his lips curve up in a sneer.
"Well, to be frank, that is just too fucking bad."
I felt it then like I had felt it in the hotel room that one night when I was alone and someone thought they could take advantage of that. And me.
Like I had felt it when one of Charlie's clients had come threateningly close to my baby.
Like I had felt when I had been in this room the last time, nearly thirty years before.
That animalistic urge.
Much like the dog Charlie had once compared me too.
Savage.
Rabid.
And if there was one thing we all knew about dogs, the mamas would stop at nothing to protect their pups.
Even if their pups were all around thirty years old and capable of taking care of themselves most of the time.
Just this once, this one last time, it was my job to secure their safety.
My hand curled in on itself, my fingertips sneaking up the back of my sleeve near my wrist, feeling the end of it.
