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Part I
1
Kennedy
I didn’t like new places. I pressed the tortoise glasses against my nose to block the light. It was invasive and unwanted. I scooted lower in the bistro chair, slouching under a palm frond. The shade was hit or miss on the outdoor patio, but it was too crowded inside. I wanted space. Quiet. I wanted to wallow in the feeling of isolation.
“Thank you,” I acknowledged the waitress softly when she delivered my espresso.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“No.” I winced. My head hurt as I lifted it to take a sip. I was paying the price for the party I attended.
I didn’t make good decisions in new places.
I dug through my designer bag for ibuprofen and swallowed a few tablets with the coffee. My phone chirped, but I didn’t look at the screen. I couldn’t. There were probably pictures. In fact, if I closed my eyes long enough and remembered exactly what I had done, I could see the cell phones freely snapping shots of me.
I didn’t care then. I only somewhat cared now.
My phone chirped again. My eyes moved to the two men posted nearby. I couldn’t go to a damn coffee shop without my father’s detail. Their heads leaned closer together and one of them whispered.
Shit.
The taller one walked toward me. “It’s time to go,” he announced. His hands clasped in front of him. I saw the blunt edge of his weapon when his jacket was pulled to the side.
“I haven’t finished my coffee,” I argued.
“It’s your father,” he replied. “You can bring the coffee with you.”
“I’d rather drink it here.” I didn’t want to acknowledge my hangover to him, even though he had noticed it. It was his job to notice everything about me.
“That’s not an option.” His voice was flat without emotion.
The second suit had already walked inside the bistro for a to-go cup. He returned, dumped my espresso in it, and handed it to me.
I glanced to my right. The couple next to me stared. They must have been tourists. Surely, the locals were used to mob boss’s daughters being dragged through the city against their wills. I didn’t know New Orleans well. I didn’t know how to read people here yet. No one in Philadelphia would have flinched.
I glared at the suits. “What is the emergency?”
“We can’t discuss it. It’s time to go.” His answer was as vague and sterile as the first time he told me.
“So, it is an emergency?” I pressed. Only for a second I let the possibility rattle around that my father might be not be feeling well. He had more and more episodes lately. He wouldn’t tell me what the brown bottle of pills was that he kept in his breast pocket. I had stopped asking.
“I didn’t say that. Let’s go.”
I had options. I could kick, scream, and make a scene in front of the tourists. Or I could leave with the suits, follow orders, obey and fulfill my duty. I hated myself for choosing the easier path.
The cardboard cup was warm. I clutched it and marched past the tall men, pretending I left because I was bored with the coffee shop.
“This way.” He extended his palm to shift me toward the sidewalk.
“I remember where we parked,” I hissed.
If he had been a family member, he would have spat back at me, but being on the payroll prevented him from stepping out of bounds. Instead, he held the door open to the backseat while the other suit started the ignition. I climbed in reluctantly and he slammed the door. He tested the handle from the inside to make sure it was locked. Both men were new. I didn’t even know their names.
The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I reached overhead to adjust the vent. I needed cool air. Lots of it. I caught glimpses of ferns drooping in the stagnant heat. The driver took one turn after another. He wasn’t careful with the wheel. Maybe it was his way to teach me a subtle lesson. I was as lost as I had been when we left the house an hour ago. I didn’t have a great sense of direction. It was another reason not to like new places. It was easy to feel confused.
My compass was off. The axis I relied on had been splintered and shredded. I stumbled through a new house, a new city, and a new life.
The black Escalade pulled up under the portico. I heard the water splash in the outdoor fountain as soon as the handle was unlocked, and I stepped onto the paver stones.
One of the new maids nodded as I strolled through the foyer. I thought I saw her curtsy. I’d say something about that another time. The house was built in the early 1900s. There were high ceilings and opulent hand-carved molding on the walls. It still contained the original pulley-system elevator and box of bells in the kitchen that was used to summon servants.
It was incredible that in less than a week my father and I occupied the house without a trace of a box or piece of brown wrapping paper. He liked these things. The lead-glass windows. The history of the house. The thick columns out front and the gardens on the grounds. The elevator was a talking point over cigars and brandy. The history of the house was a way to establish prominence. A foothold into New Orleans social circles.
I walked into my father’s study, flanked by my bodyguards. He was on the phone. I wasn’t sure he noticed I had entered until he held a finger up to warn me against speaking. I fiddled with my phone until he was finished.
His eyes landed on me. I refused to squirm in the seat. My father wasn’t a large man, but he had the kind of gaze that was imposing. Threatening. Dark
. His light brown eyes were as menacing as any set of black coal irises. He had a thin frame that he dressed in expensive Italian suits. I’d never seen my father’s hair out of place, or a stain on his shirt.
It wasn’t until the bodyguards exited that he broke the silence.
I slurped from the coffee cup.
“Kennedy.” His finger tapped on the oversized desk.
“Yes?” My eyebrows rose. I realized my mistake when the headache pinched together at my temple. “You needed me for something? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”
“You know exactly why you’re here.”
I shrugged. “I don’t want to guess.”
His scowl had cut down men three times my size. Yet, I still pushed boundaries. I tested him. I looked for way to press his buttons. I created these situations, and I hated them. Sometimes I thought I hated him. I hated my own father.
“We’ve been in New Orleans exactly one week and you’ve already become cheap gossip.”
I blinked. “I don’t like those words. Cheap gossip? What does that even mean?”
His cheeks began to redden. “It means you have embarrassed me. You have no regard for who I am. Our family name.” His palms flattened into the mahogany desktop. “There are pictures of you dancing on a pool table. Do you even play pool?”
I swallowed hard. “No.”
“Then why were you on top of one?”
I couldn’t stand the glare. I flinched for a second. But it was long enough that I lost the edge I had. I felt my stomach flip and my lungs strain for air. My palms became sweaty.
“You told me to socialize. I socialized.” My defiance was cracking.
