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Prologue
Mable
Eighteen years old.
Two families have been at war since I can remember.
Mine and the Benedettis.
My family comes from a long line of lawyers who have ruined many of the Benedettis’ lives. My father always says, “Guilty men should have guilty charges pressed against them.” But, like many men, people can be bought for their loyalty and indiscretion. My father has waived his morals once or twice for the right price, and I never cared.
I’m just a teenage girl, looking at what makes the world spin. My parents think I’m not very bright, that I have no idea what’s going on in life because I’m too busy with headphones in my ears listening to too loud music to pay attention. Just because I don’t say much does not mean I’m not smart or that I don’t pick up on things happening around me.
I know my father stays up late working, and I’ve overheard him on the phone with a few of the Benedettis. Those calls always end with him yelling at whoever is on the phone.
And I know Mom makes her ‘special drink’ around ten at night.
Every time she tells me that, I snort to myself, as if I don’t know what alcohol smells like.
She also thinks I don’t know that she chases a pill down with that same glass of her ‘special drink’ before making herself another.
It’s better they think me inconsequential. I’ve learned a lot about life just by staying quiet and watching them—watching them make mistake after mistake and then scramble to undo it.
For instance, I know my father pissed off the wrong man. Last night around midnight, a loud banging echoed through the house from the front door. I crept out of my room, tiptoed across the floor, slid down the wall, and peeked around the corner so I could look downstairs. I could see the front door perfectly.
And when my father opened the door, he didn’t invite the man inside.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the car window as we drive, replaying the conversation in my mind.
“What the hell are you doing at my home, Benedetti? I have a daughter who is upstairs asleep.” He stood in the doorway to make sure Benedetti couldn’t get in the house.
“If you answered your phone, I wouldn’t have to be here. But you have to get out of here, Porter. I’ve come to warn you. One of the men you put in jail for me has put your name on a list. Your entire family is up for sale, Porter. You need to go.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who?”
“Leonardo.”
Silence falls and I watch as my father runs his fingers through his hair. “He isn’t supposed to be out yet.”
“You know better than to think he wouldn’t try and get revenge. I have my ear to the ground and I’m only here because you’ve been there for my family more than once. You need to leave. And you need to make sure you never come back.” My father tried to shut the door in Benedetti’s face, but the mafia boss’s hand shot out, stopping it from closing.
And when the hinges squeaked, the French door swinging open again, a gun was pointed at my father. “Don’t make me force you. Don’t make me take your life, because if you don’t leave, it’s suicide. Your daughter won’t make it to her next birthday if you don’t listen to me. Please, Porter. Get out,” the man pled.
“And go where?”
Benedetti slammed the butt of the gun against my father’s head, then shoved the barrel into my father’s mouth.
I covered my heavy breaths with my hands, so I didn’t make a sound, and my eyes watered from being so afraid. I heard the click of the gun as Benedetti cocked it.
“You’ll do this, or your pretty wife and daughter will die, Porter. I might as well kill you now if you won’t listen to me.”
I watched as Benedetti slammed the door behind him, and my father became afraid. I’d never seen him afraid, but he rubbed his hands down his face and flew up the stairs.
That’s when I ran to my room and slipped under the covers, only for my father to burst through the door, yank the blankets off me, and tell me to pack before I’d had a chance to calm my racing heart.
The car jostles when we hit a pothole, making me slam my head against the window. “Ouch.” We’re heading out of town, away from the Benedettis, away from the life of crime my father has caught himself in, and away from the threats of the mafia. He thinks I don’t know it’s the mafia he’s been dabbling with these past few years. I’ve heard him and Mr. Benedetti having conversations a few times in my dad’s office.
“Holden, slow down. We need to make it out of the city alive,” my mother scolds my father, just as the tires squeal as he takes a turn too hard.
