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My skin is clammy as I listen to the ringing on the line. My body feels like it’s on fire, buzzing and humming. I think I might pass out before he even answers the phone.
My stomach threatens to revolt, and I clench my abs trying to pull myself together. This is not the time to break down, that will have to wait for later.
“Gemma?” His voice is as smooth as velvet, as sinful as whiskey. He seems surprised to hear from me, and I want to sink into his voice and get lost with him but there are other matters of importance right now. I can practically smell his signature scent of pine and cigarettes and taste him on my tongue.
God, I miss him.
“Liam, you need to get out of your house.” It takes effort to keep me from yelling. I have to keep my voice low and level, I can’t let the guests downstairs hear me warning their target.
“What?” he asks in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you at your parents’ house?”
“Yes… Gemma—”
“Leave. Now. Liam there’s not enough time. You need to go. They’re gonna kill you.” There are tears falling from my eyes. They’re dripping down my cheeks and hitting my chest in rapid succession. I’m trying to hold myself together, once he’s safe I can break down.
Just a few more minutes.
“Gemma—” Before he finishes his sentence the line goes dead.
“Liam!” I shout into the phone, throwing caution to the wind and no longer whispering.
He doesn’t answer.
I wait for him to call me back. Pray that his phone is just dead and he’s fine.
But the call doesn’t come.
Nine Months Later
I HAVE MY FEET KICKED up onto my desk at the law office. I’m overworked and underpaid, as I like to tell my father. The line only serves to make him chuckle. He doesn’t pay me at all, but he does pay my credit card bill, so in a sense he pays me well.
I’ve grown a liking to the law office, though I’ve become picky about the cases I’ll help with. I leaf through the stack of intake forms on my lap, people seeking Giuseppe out as an attorney.
There’s one, a nineteen year old girl who was raped in an alley. She wants to sue the police department for losing her rape kit. I shudder reading through her intake questions. She’s been victimized twice. Once by her assailant, and then again when the justice system refused to help her. It’s cases like hers that keep me coming back.
“Look at this!” I huff, marching to the second office that is now filled. Dad hired a paralegal, Rhea, the da
ughter of one of the Capos, Joe Cabrera. Rhea has a law degree that her father would prefer she doesn’t use, instead he convinced Giuseppe to hire her as a paralegal, a job she is over qualified for. Our favorite pastime in the month that she’s worked here has been bitching over drinks about our overprotective fathers. It’s been good to have someone who understands.
I drop the file on her desk and slump into the seat across from her.
Rhea flips her mane of unruly curls over her shoulder and zones in on the report. “Ugh,” she groans. We get more of these than I’d like to ever see.
Women attacked in dark alleys.
Women fired for not handing out blow jobs.
Women hurt and abused over and over again until they break, and then they get sent to jail.
These aren’t cases my father takes. They’re the ones that get sent to the bottom of the circular filing bin to never be seen again. These women will most likely never get justice.
“Cazzo,” Rhea adds, scanning the form. Her mother came from Sicily at eighteen, speaking little English and immediately meeting her father. I know Italian, but Rhea is fluent. She interchanges between the two languages most of the time without realizing, a fact that makes me chuckle. “Add her to the list.” Rhea says, handing the intake form back to me.
“Done.” We have a list of these cases, women who are seeking justice only to be tossed to the curb.
The list and about fifty grand that my father gave us. That’s the beginning of the plan. We’re going to put the money to good use, opening up a non-profit that will help provide legal services to women who otherwise would be unaided.
