Page 31 of Rockland

“You mean, food? It’s a staple. You’ll find it in most kitchens.” I pull out a skillet, waiting for her witty comeback. When I don’t get one, I turn over my shoulder, glancing at her.

She’s looking down at her hands, fiddling with her fingers. In a small voice, she replies, “I haven’t had much of an appetite, I guess.”

Sorrow penetrates my heart. She looks so small, lost. I’m here to help her with that. I walk over to her. My tone is gentle, coaxing. “Of course you haven’t. I apologize.” I touch the bottom of her chin with my fingers. Tilt her head up until her gaze meets mine. “But you have to eat, sweetheart.”

She shrugs. I get to work, and she watches as I cook. A few minutes later, there’s two golden brown grilled cheese sandwiches on plates. And two tall glasses of whole milk.

She takes the plate I give her. Eyeing the food warily. The milk, she pushes away, her nose wrinkling adorably. “I haven’t drunk milk since I was a kid. Unless you’re counting White Russians, of course. I could sure go for one of those right about now.”

“Whole milk has calories and calcium—two things you desperately need. Now take a bite of that sandwich.” I give her a hard stare.

She shifts uncomfortably on her sore, well-loved ass. My cock stiffens at the sight of her squirming. She lifts the bread to her mouth, taking a tiny, delicate bite. Her eyes widen in surprise as she chews. “It’s good!”

“What were you expecting it to be?” I ask. I sit beside her. Take a bite of my sandwich. Not half bad.

She shrugs, side-eyeing me. “You just don’t look… domesticated.”

“What do I look like?” I ask, holding in a chuckle.

That pretty blush rises in her cheeks. She says, “I don’t know… a hot mafia bad boy, I guess. Like a man who has people to cook for him. Yet—you can cook. You like beat-up trucks. And you live in a hut. Right? I guess you can’t judge a book by a cover.”

This is… fun. Light. Sitting beside her, sharing food. Bantering. “I don’t live in a hut. For your information.”

“Well, where do you live? Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever been told.” She happily takes another delicate bite from her sandwich.

I say, “Have you ever asked?”

She shrugs her tiny shoulders, the blades poking against the thin fabric of her dress. God, I can’t wait to see some more meat on those bones. “Not really. Considering you and I could barely tolerate to be in the same room together in the past. I didn’t pay much attention to your habitat.”

A pain strikes me in my chest. Remembering those times. Not being able to be in a room alone with her. But for Tess, it was from an unpleasant hatred of me.

For me on the other hand…

She interrupts my thoughts by saying, “Tell me. About your home.”

I take a sip of milk. How do I explain my home to her? It’s so different from here, the Village she’s grown accustomed to. I say, “It’s called the Parish. Not many of the family here know about it, we like to keep the knowledge of our existence scarce. That way if any Bachmans from the Village or Hamlet run into trouble, they can easily disappear.”

“I had no idea.” She takes a sip of milk, an adorable white mustache forming above her full upper lip before she dabs it away with a napkin.

“Most don’t. Then, if you were to be questioned by the police about a certain disappearance of a family member—maybe a Dante Bachman⁠—”

Her eyes widen in recognition. “Say, whatever happened to that guy? He left the family, what was it, three or four years ago? Bronson kept the whole thing so quiet we Beauties just kind of let the gossip drop.”

“He was under criminal investigation. Can’t say what for. Anyway, as soon as we found the feds sniffing around, we all thought it best if he took a walk, so to speak.”

“Where is he now? How is he doing?”

“He’s well. Has a golden tan, a Greek wife whose cooking brings tears to your eyes, and a kickass tattoo across his chest.”

She eyes the black swirls marking my own bare skin. A light flush creeps into her cheeks as she swallows down her food. Her gaze leaves mine and she says, “Tell me more about your Parish.”

“We’re a small band of Bachmans who live on an isolated island off the coast of Greece. One the government is paid off to assume and report as uninhabited. We have many of the same rules, lifestyle similarities, but it’s more…” I pause, trying to find the right words to describe my tribe, “family oriented.”

She eyes my chest once more, her blush deepens. She squirms a bit on her seat and begins to ramble nervously. “Like the Hamlet? In Connecticut? That’s where all the couples who want to procreate from the Village go. Have you heard that Sasha and Carter may be taking the leap? Apparently, Carter has baby fever and is dreaming of little ankle biters running amuck. They wanted to go last year, but with… Brett’s passing… Bronson needed Carter to stay on. They’re talking about going at the end of this year—think about it, Sasha could be pregnant by the next memorial.”

“At the Parish, the children coexist with Bachman life. Sure, they are sheltered from the more delicate domestic marriage elements, just as other children are, but it’s not a suburbia like the Hamlet. It’s a seaside village.”

The truth is I live in a breathtaking manor by the sea, fit for a king. It was a bit opulent for my personal tastes, but the residents of the Parish insisted my home be lavish. I let them plan it out. The Parish grew fast, men traveling hundreds of miles to find me, to pledge themselves to the Bachman Brotherhood. Myriad people with an eclectic mix of talents. Carpenters, bankers, gangsters, chefs. Some because they wanted the peace and security our lifestyle brings to their wives, their marriages. Others seeking fortunes to send back to their poorer villages, enamored by the Robin Hood nature of our crimes and willing to lay down their lives to bring elderly relatives prosperity. The man all look to me as if I’m a god, bringing them fortune and contentment. Their loyalty to me is second to none, but I find the attention unnerving. I love leading the people, but I’m not one for the limelight.