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“You’re kidding,” I say.
“No. Why?” Josephine furrows her brows, unaware that the Temptress is one of my family’s holdings, a legitimate one. Though, despite this, the debauchery that takes place between its walls makes it the perfect location for certain drug sales to go down. It’s one of many of my family’s legitimate holdings that have secret operations overseen by one of my capos.
“Just, continue.”
Josephine, displeased with my abrasiveness, purses her lips. Still, she does as I ask. “I couldn’t hear what was being said or even see the face of the man with whom my father met, but he did meet with someone. Given our discussion earlier, I’d bet millions he was meeting with someone about Valentina, perhaps the one who has betrayed you. I know it may not seem like much, but, in my experience, an old dog doesn’t learn new tricks. My guess is, if your traitor used the Temptress as a meeting ground before, he’s still using it now.”
I nod and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from cursing. I know her assumption isn’t proof, but two coincidences aren’t exactly coincidence at all. Walsh and his men told Sophia that they had eyes on me and would kill me if she didn’t go with them. I thought they were bluffing, seeing as I was meeting with Gabriel Parisi at the time of the attack. And yet, Josephine’s mention of the Temptress suggests I may be wrong about him, the capo I trusted the most, aside from Gio. Because it is his responsibility to oversee the drug operations out of the Temptress. His and his alone.
“Alister? Alister, are you okay?”
“No.” My voice is so low the word is barely audible. “I think I know who’s plotting against me. I think I know who is responsible for Valentina’s death.” And my mother’s and Cara’s.
Josephine nods, a sense of uncharacteristic nervousness contorting her features. “I suppose no matter how hard we try to avoid them, the wars of our fathers will always become ours. With that in mind, I will leave you with this advice.”
As Josephine contemplates her next words, all her natural charisma leaves her along with her arrogance. I lean forward, not wanting to miss a word. Josephine may be my enemy on most days, but today, she is a fearless leader willing to offer me the guidance I desperately need.
Finally, she says, “When our world begins to crumble around us, we often think we need to burn it down and start over just to survive. But, like a wildfire, once we light the match, there is no controlling where the fire will burn or who it will claim. I know you feel betrayed.”
“Betrayed?” I scoff. “No, my father was betrayed. I am…I am vengeful, filled with a lethal lust for the blood of my enemies I’ve never felt before.”
“That’s why I urge you, Alister, to maintain your control and handle this like a leader, like a king, not an angry little boy who takes his fist to his Legos.”
“Is this meant to be your advice? Because it doesn’t sound like anything more than a good scolding.”
“What I’m saying is, what we do is a delicate balance, knowing when to protect with force and when to protect with sacrifice. Knowing when to negotiate and when to stand firm. The ones we love are the safest when we maintain the balance. If we tilt in either direction, we either become too soft and easily taken advantage of or too unpredictable, so much so our own people fear us. And then they turn on us. If you are to protect the people you love, Alister, if you want to end this vicious cycle of violence, then you need to replace the traitor with someone formerly aligned to them. Often, it’s a family member of the same name, same blood. It gives the family their dignity back and helps soothe the pain of losing their loved one. Because no matter how treacherous the crimes of your enemies are, there will always be loved ones who mourn them, loved ones who can easily become enemies if you don’t find a way to bring them to your side.”
“I hear you. But how do I know I can trust them? How do I know they won’t come after me the same as they did my father?”
“You don’t,” Josephine admits. “But you must be merciful as much as you are feared if you are to maintain the support of your people. It’s the only way you’ll be able to keep her safe.”
I nod, savoring Josephine’s advice, though the mention ofherdraws my attention and instantly makes my insides tighten. “You mean Sophia?” I ask.
“The fact that you have to ask for clarification is all the answer you need, Alister.” At that, Josephine shakes her head more to herself than at me. “You care about Ariana,” she says then, returning her gaze to me. As the words settle between us, I find myself sitting up straighter, as if ready to defend my feelings for the woman I know I shouldn’t love but do.Wait. Love?My silent confession steals the words right off my tongue. The sad look on Josephine’s face lets me know it’s better this way.
“I don’t know how the two of you found each other, but your feelings for her are obvious. Too obvious. Why else do you think Avery sought to use her against you?”
“This is the lecture I was expecting,” I mumble.
“It’s not a lecture, Alister. It’s a warning. You need to stay away from her. Our world destroyed her mother, her family. It’s already got its claws into Ariana, and yet, she can still escape it if you just let her go. You know it’s the right thing.” She nods. “And I know I have no claim over her or right to even say these things to you. But I also know that this life, a life with you, is the last thing her mother would want for her. I’ve already failed Valentina once. To remain silent on this matter would be to fail her again.”
“This is one of those times I’m meant to protect by sacrifice,” I say. Her words aren’t new to me. I’ve been telling myself all the same things. “It isn’t so easy, Josephine. Not when walking away from her means sacrificing the part of me that is the most human, the most normal, the only part of me I actually like.”
“I know your burden. But if it was easy, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be real. Take pleasure in the fact that it is. Hold on to that pleasure even as you let her go.”
23
As my fingersgraze the wooden box containing mementoes from my mother’s past, my chest aches. I never got to bury my mother. The closest thing I have to a grave site is the place in Audubon Park where we’d have our picnics. This box changes that. It holds pieces of her and her story,my story, that allow me to feel close to her even though she’s never been further from me. And yet, I hesitate to open it, to look at the pictures of her when she was happy, when she was young and innocent, before her family stole her light, because I know what’s inside is all I’ll ever have of her. Opening this box is like saying hello and goodbye all at once. It is her urn and this, this is finally the closure I’ve longed for ever since that fateful day that never made sense.
Repositioning myself on the bed, I set the box in front of me and brush my damp locks behind my ears. Slowly, I open it and remove the pistol, placing it on the bedside table. The night I met Alister, I asked him in a rhetorical fit why my mother didn’t run. Why she didn’t, at a minimum, have a means to protect herself. Turns out she sought just that—a better life for her and her daughter and a means of attaining it. I shake my head as fresh tears fall. Josephine should be glad her father is dead, because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t live another night.
As I rummage through the box, I pull each item out slowly, saving the pictures for last. There isn’t much—the elephant toy, an old sweatshirt, and a small journal. After all those years, the sweatshirt smells like wood, but I inhale its scent anyway, knowing that once it smelled liked her. The elephant toy rattles as I lay it next to me atop the fluffy white comforter. I can’t help but smile at the sound. I pull the journal into my lap, and I lean back against the wooden bed frame and make sure my face is dry of tears before opening it. I wouldn’t want any to fall and smudge my mother’s handwriting. Though, as I read the first entry, I realize not crying isn’t an option.
August 2, 1992—I’m scared. I did something, something bad, and now I’m being punished. All my life, my parents have done everything to protect me, so much so, I’ve hated them for it. But now I see why. I’m…I’m pregnant. And I don’t know what will happen next. Will my parents disown me? Will Sandro still love me? And what about my baby? What kind of life will he or she have? Will I even be allowed to be a part of it? God—please, help me. I know I messed up, but please. I need you.
August 22, 1992—I told Sandro. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. He said he loves me, and he wants to do right by me. I’ve never been more relieved. I love him so much and I always thought we would get married, just not so soon. But, if Sandro is willing to marry me and provide for me and the baby, then my parents should have no reason to force me to give it up. But I can’t be sure until I tell them. And so, my relief is quickly replaced with nauseating fear. Sandro said we should tell them together. He doesn’t want me to go through any of this alone. But I know my father. This will infuriate him and break my mother’s heart. Our family will be ruined. No. I can’t let Sandro anywhere near my parents. My father may hate me once he learns the truth, but he won’t kill me. I can’t say the same for Sandro.
November 22, 1992—It’s been too painful to write. Even now, tears drench my cheeks and my hand shakes. I thought I was protecting Sandro by telling my parents of my pregnancy alone. And maybe I did. But I’ll never know because my parents sent me away. It’s been months now and no one has come for me, not even Sandro. I’m worried he’s dead. But, perhaps, more so, I’m worried he doesn’t love me anymore. Does he think I chose to leave him? Does he know the truth—that my parents sent me away? Does he even care? My belly has started to swell, though not much. I’m going to have Josephine, the daughter of the man who’s keeping me hidden, take pictures. I want to show them to Sandro when we’re finally reunited. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Believing he’s still out there and he still loves me is the only way I’ll make it through this. And I have to make it through this, not just for me, but for my daughter. My daughter. MY daughter. It doesn’t feel real to say or think, but I’m going to be a mom. How do I even do that?
