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“It’s just Matty.” I poke Milo’s shoulder as he retrieves his bag and pulls out clothing.
Just Matty. Matty, who is an FBI agent. Matty, who can help me. Actually, I don’t need Matty right now. I need Special Agent Matthew Hayes.
“I know,” Milo says, his tone easygoing. “I’m going to shower.” He marches into the bathroom, but before he can slam the door on me, I hold it open and point to my toothbrush.
“You’re such an old man,” I mumble with a smirk, grabbing my backpack and clothing. “Shower, but lock the door to your bedroom.” I quickly brush my teeth because he’s right, my breath stinks, and then I leave him to his shower. I cast a glance into the opposite room every few seconds to check if Matty is still there.
He watches me, his eyes squinting with an inquisitive expression. I can practically see the thoughts rolling across those deep, ocean blue eyes.
As soon as Milo locks the bathroom door, I relax and toss my things onto a chair. I hold a finger up to my lips, indicating silence, then I proceed to check under the bed, lock the bedroom door, and wedge yet another chair under it.
“Why now, sweetheart? If you wanted us all alone, all you had to do was ask,” he drawls while lying on the bed, already half naked. His chest is bare, and unlike his brother, there isn’t a single tattoo. However, those sweatpants are downright sinful, and it takes herculean effort to pull my eyes away from how they ride low on his hips. I also don’t miss the bandage on his hips.
“I have a problem,” I whisper as the sound of the shower begins. “One that I think you can help me with.”
“I’m having déjà vu,” he mutters, but Matty is observant and watches me carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“I need Agent Hayes right now.” I swallow hard. “We don’t have much time.”
His face instantly changes, and he tries to sit up. “What happened?” He instantly goes alert, which is exactly what I need from him.
I pull the folder from my backpack and hand it to him. It takes a moment for Matty to sit up, but when he does, he carefully flips through the contents of the folder, his brows furrowing with a mixture of concern and anger. It’s a roller coaster of emotions I’m all too familiar with.
When he reaches the pictures of my mom, he closes his eyes, his face contorting into a grimace. The pain etched in his features is a mirror of what I felt when I first saw those images.
“Fuck.” He snaps the folder closed, needing a moment to compose himself. “Sweetheart, this… Fuck.”
“I know.”
“You’re a Bonanno.”
“I know.” I drag my hands down my face, feeling the weight of my heritage pressing down on me. The darkness of my family’s history wraps around me like a suffocating shroud. “I need to get out of here.”
“Charlotte, are you sure?” He glances at the locked door, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“I know,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. The walls feel like they are closing in, the shadows growing deeper, suffusing the room with a malevolent presence. “I just need to think.”
“Charlotte, there are men out there—some of which are Bonannos. Lyric and I tracked one down. Damien is bringing him in now. He’s a Genovese.” He shakes his head as though dislodging his thoughts. “You’re safe here.”
“Am I?” I snap as Milo begins singing in the shower, the lightness of his innocence starkly contrasting to the pervasive darkness surrounding us. My eyes close, and I try to steady my breathing amidst the looming dread. “I don’t feel safe anywhere. Keep looking,” I encourage him, desperate for answers.
As he opens the folder again, I start pacing the room, my anxiety causing me to chew on my nails, a nasty habit I thought I kicked. My mom used to put that foul-tasting polish on my nails to keep me from chewing on them, a cruel reminder of discipline in the midst of chaos.
“The car accident was staged. Your father killed them,” Matty muses, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut, shaking the already unsteady ground beneath my feet. I feel a surge of emotions crashing through me, a tempest of disbelief, horror, and anger. It’s a revelation that threatens to shatter the fragile semblance of reality I’ve clung to.
I pause and turn to him, needing to understand more. “Charlotte, this is bad,” he remarks.
“How did they manipulate me into getting here?” My voice wavers with a mix of frustration and fear, my mind racing to unravel the tangled web of deception that ensnared me.
“I don’t think they did. I think it was an accident,” he whispers, concern etched across his face. “I don’t think they expected you.”
“I don’t buy it,” I state firmly, doubting every decision that led me here.
“All right, all right,” he drawls, attempting to maintain a sense of calm amidst the storm of revelations. “Listen, I need to look into this, but, Charlotte, if your father knows you’re here…”
“Do you think…” I swallow hard, the words catching in my throat. “Sal wasn’t going to give up Brooklyn. He was going to give me up.”
He sighs, and when he doesn’t answer, I have my answer.
