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My father looked up from the TV. He looked surprised to see me.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know you were out there.”
“I was just having a drink.” I held up the glass then dumped the rest down the sink.
He got up and lingered near me. “You doing okay?”
“Fine,” I said.
“You’ve been hiding in your room. You know, the way you used to, when you were younger.”
“I was hiding from you back then,” I said.
“Guess you still are, huh?”
“Guess so.” I gave him a flat look. “You need to fix this, Dad.”
He held up his hands. “Honey—”
“Talk to Don Leone,” I said. “If they send people over, just talk to them, okay? No more killing.”
“Elise, come on.”
“Do it,” I said. “You owe me. You’ve done so much shitty stuff, and now you almost got me killed, all because you think you can move down here to be closer to me. Well, I don’t want it, I don’t want any of it. So fix it.”
He opened his mouth then snapped it shut. I could see the anger in his eyes.
“Why do you think Don Leone’s going to talk to me?” he asked.
“Because I have a feeling,” I said and stormed past him.
I half expected him to grab me, but he didn’t.
I reached the stairs and looked back.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said and stared at the floor.
For just a brief moment, I softened. He was my father, after all. I thought he loved me, in his own broken and fucked-up way, at least.
But it wasn’t the time to get soft. I headed upstairs and went into my room. I closed the door and locked it behind me.
Then climbed into bed and waited.
I wasn’t hiding anymore. Tanner was out there, and I made up my mind. If he was sincere, I was going to give him a chance. Maybe I wasn’t sure about him yet, and maybe he still scared the hell out of me, but he deserved a chance.
After everything he’d done, that was the least I could do.
If he left that life behind and tried to be a normal father, or at least as normal as he could be, then maybe we could have something.
Maybe, just maybe, it could be okay.
I tried not to let myself hope, because hope always betrayed me, one way or another.24TannerDon Leone’s city mansion was one of the most famous buildings in all of Philadelphia. I stood down the block from it, leaning against a light pole. The facade was under construction and guys were constantly coming in and out of the place. I’d heard about the big gun fight and the fire that wrecked half the place, but he seemed committed to bringing it all back to life, slowly but surely.
Which worked for me, since it made it easy to get inside.
I walked over, hands shoved in my pockets. I looked down at my work boots and baggy mud-covered jeans. A couple bags of Quikrete sat next to a large white moving van and I hefted one up onto my shoulder. I kept it covering my face as I headed toward the front door. A guy wearing black boots came down the stoop and I kept the bag between the two of us. He grunted something as I stepped into the main entryway.
The room was magnificent. Or at least it was at one point. The walls were all covered in paint and plaster, and every inch of the place was being rebuilt. The floor was a gorgeous tile mosaic, and a glittering chandelier hung above the destruction, the only untouched piece in the room.
Everything else was pockmarked or scorched. The smell of burnt wood and gunpowder still hung in the air. The walls were littered with bullet holes and there were large gashes torn in the tile.
I walked through it. A couple guys stood over near the staircase. The handrail had been ripped to shreds and only a few sticks of wood were left over from the once-glorious railing.
“Hey,” one of the guys called out, a fat man with pig eyes and a pen between his teeth. “Hey, Joey, drop that fuckin’ bag, what are you doin’?”
I grunted something and kept going.
But Pigman didn’t give up so easy. “Joey, hey!” He came down the steps toward me. I heard him stomp on the tiles as I walked.
I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I slipped a knife from my picket, flicked it open, and jabbed it into the Quikrete. The white powdered concrete fluttered out into the air. I cut a huge hole then pretended to stumble. I turned and slammed the bag down onto the floor.
Concrete blasted up into the air.
“Fuckin’ shit!” Pigman shouted. “What the fuckin’ fuck! Holy shit, is that concrete? What the fuck!”
I ran, shirt over my mouth, trying not to breathe. I gagged and coughed, but I made it into the hall and around the corner. I stopped and leaned up against the wall, brushing as much of the concrete from my clothes and hair. I took a second to look around at the blackened and burned formerly plush red carpet, at the holes in the walls, at the partially painted and replaced doors.
