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ONE MONTH LATER
The French Quarterat Christmas is no different than any other day in New Orleans. Sure, every column and antique streetlamp throughout the historic district is covered in Christmas lights or wrapped with green garland and topped with a red velvet bow. Every window and door is adorned with a wreath. Every wrought iron balcony is decked out in perfect harmony. And let’s not forget the oak trees in the parks and at residences alike now covered in fairy lights in addition to the Mardi Gras beads never collected and the Spanish moss that allows the city’s mystery and magic to prevail even during the jolliest time of year.
What the South lacks in snow it most certainly makes up for in decorations and festivities. And though perhaps its most known for its booze and music, it’s not just the residents of New Orleans who embrace Christmas to the nth degree but also the businesses. While the carriage-riding crowd carols at Jackson Square, the midnight Santa runners pregame on Bourbon Street. The street musicians change their tunes, playing jazz versions of traditional Christmas carols. Famous restaurants and bars update their menus and compete to see who can make the best Milk Punch and other Christmas inspired cocktails. My personal favorite is the Mrs. Claus’ Cookie martini at Sazerac, but I digress. Because like every other day in the Crescent City, the streets are filled with men and monsters alike, homes and hearts are tainted with secrets, and even the festive fuss cannot cleanse the darkness threatening to consume us all.
As I turn off the loud and lively Bourbon Street and continue toward my apartment, flanked by one of the two bodyguards assigned to me by my father, the night air fills with a violinist’s sharp and sorrowful rendition of “Jingle Bells.” As the song concludes, the man hits a note that sounds like a cross between a Mariah Carey whistle and a woman’s cry of terror. The eerie sound forces me to tug my leather jacket tighter around me as it amplifies the chill even the bustling Christmas crowds can’t help me shake. After hours in the wintery winds and rain and the all-consuming rage and fear I felt coming face-to-face with the man who murdered my mother, perhaps the icy sensation has permanently attached itself to me just like the memories of that eventful night.
It’s been one month since I was held by Vitale, since Alister said his last goodbye and shoved me into a car full of people I didn’t know, sending me away to none other than my father, Alessandro Gagliano. The sheer shock of it all has almost been enough to quell the ache of my breaking heart—almost. Alister and I had a deal, one I myself initiated. But when I was at Vitale’s mercy, when I feared I would die, Alister was the only person alive I wished to see. I suppose I got my wish, which has only made it even harder for me to bottle the feelings I know I must. He came for me, he risked everything to rescue me, including his life and Sophia’s. His actions only made me fall in love with him even more. Yet, his final goodbye made it painstakingly clear—while the rest of my world has changed, our ability to be together never will.
I haven’t spoken to Alister since that night. I’ve tried calling, texting only to get no response. I even went to Laroux House a few times, not to beg him to be with me, but just to make sure he was alright. Taking down Vitale was just as emotional for him as it was for me. Not to mention the last time I saw him he’d been shot, and Sophia was in the wind. But his guards wouldn’t even let me through the gate. Yet, while the distance between Alister and me has only grown, so too has my relationship with my father—my father! I still can’t even think the word while keeping a straight face.
I’ve gone so many years not only without a father but thinking the worst of the man I never knew. Add to that my unfortunate experience with my last father figure—I suppose that’s the nice way of putting it—and my past has left me hesitant to welcome another man into my life. When I think of my dad, when I get coffee with him, when I have dinner with him and his wife and children, even today, when I spent Christmas with them, I can’t help but be transported back to when I was ten years old and twelve and sixteen. Each time I entered a new foster home, I always wondered how long it would last and how it would end. What would I do to make them give me up? Or what would happen to me to make me want to leave? It was a cycle of fear and hopelessness that seemed to never end. I can’t help but feel those same emotions now. The more I get to know my father and his family,my family, the more I grow to like them and the more I worry something, or someone, will separate us just like our differing worlds separated me from Alister.
Perhaps those same emotions are what have kept me from opening up to people over the years, especially Ray. Maybe I’ve always kept people at arm’s length because the moment I allow myself to care, the moment I open up to them, I fear I’ll lose them. Thankfully, I haven’t lost Ray yet. After a few days in my father’s care, he received word that Vitale and his associates had officially served their sentences and had been neutralized. There’s a part of me that wishes I could’ve seen him suffer or at least been the one to put the bullet in his head or carve the X into his chest. But the other part of me knows that if I did, I’d be haunted by my own actions just as much as I am haunted by his. With Vitale’s death and my body’s recovery well under way, I was free to leave my father’s and the first thing I did was search for Ray.
I found him at his apartment with injuries similar to mine. Once he learned I was alive, I thought for sure he’d be angry at me, for not only putting him in the position I did but for lying to him about Alister, about everything. Instead, he gave me the hug I truly needed, and I told him everything. I told him about my mom, my childhood, and my assault. I told him not only about my investigation into Alister, but my feelings for him. I even told him about Vitale. Well, I suppose that’s the one thing I sort of had to tell him seeing as Vitale and his men put him in the hospital for two days. Finally, keeping his identity secret for his own protection, I told him I met my father, a mafiosi just like the man I love. He didn’t say anything at first. In fact, I’m sure we sat in silence for over an hour asSeinfeldplayed in the background. Finally, he reached over to me, offered me his hand, and said,“I’m sorry I pushed you to open up. I had no idea what you were holding in.”
“It’s okay,”I told him. As worry etched into his brow, I asked,“What now?”
He took a deep breath and said,“This world you’ve been navigating, I’ve only ever seen it through one lens, that of an FBI agent. I don’t want to see you get caught up in something not only dangerous, but illegal. But I know you well enough to know that nothing is going to stop you from getting to know your father, just like nothing stopped you from going after Alister Amato. And I’d rather you not have to go through it alone. I guess what I’m saying is, if you’re in the market for a friend, I’d like to fill that role, and not as the flirty coworker friend who secretly, or not so secretly, wants to date you, but as a true, stuff-our-faces, gross-each-other-out friend.”
I still smile when I think about it. Though, it’s impossible to think about that moment without remembering what happened next. Bilieux called me. I was hesitant to take the call in front of Ray, seeing as the one thing I hadn’t told him was of Bilieux’s side deal with Alister. Not to mention my suspicions that he may be behind the rumors about me circulating the bureau. Not that starting rumors is anywhere near the level of despicable I’m accustomed to. Though, I suspected his intention for spreading them may be. Still, I answered it. He acted like he knew nothing of my relationship with Alister or the rumors Ray warned me about let alone that I’m aware of his secret corruption. And, you know what, maybe he doesn’t or, should I say,didn’t. But there was one thing he should’ve been aware of that he pretended he knew nothing about. And that’s what gave him away.
The day Vitale attacked us, Ray woke to find me missing and my apartment trashed. He immediately called Bilieux and told him everything, hoping that Bilieux would try to find me. God knows he had the resources to. He did nothing. It wasn’t obvious at first since Ray was the only person who knew of my abduction. He couldn’t get to the bureau to see Bilieux’s efforts to find me, or not find me, due to his stint in the hospital, which Bilieux followed up, conveniently, with paid leave so that Ray could more properly recover. As Bilieux went on and on about me rejoining the task force in January, not once did he mention Ray’s call or ask if I was okay. Nothing. When the call ended, a sense of unease washed over me. Did Bilieux not search for me because he’d hoped someone else would take care of silencing me? Or because he knew I’d be taken?
Bilieux had already made one deal with one Mafia king to line his own pockets. With Alister’s time on the throne presumably limited due to the FBI’s impending investigation, it’s possible Bilieux sought a new king to bargain with. Or, perhaps, Vitale sought him out. Perhaps his relationship with Bilieux is how he learned I’m FBI. Regardless, my former boss was definitely hiding something, which is exactly what I texted Sophia to tell Alister.
Days later, SSA Bilieux was found dead. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t tell Ray of my suspicions. Thinking me or rather, Alister, responsible for an agent’s death may have been too much for him to accept. But I know Alister wouldn’t have killed him without proof that he posed a threat to either his family or me. If my suspicions about Bilieux are correct, Alister protected me from him. Though, he isn’t the only evil he’s vanquished in my name.
In the weeks since Vitale’s capture and death, the news has been filled with stories I can only assume Sophia is behind, unless the Amatos have some PR professional on retainer with an iron-clad NDA who knows how to clean up certain messes, specifically bloody ones. It’s actually interesting to see how they operate, to see how they’ve kept their secrets for over a century. While an eyewitness claims she saw Christio Vitale fall into the swamp, his body subsequently dragged away by an alligator, similar reports of freak accidents have covered up the deaths of his associates. Even Bilieux’s death was ruled a suicide. But among the cover stories was one I didn’t expect.
According to Police Chief Hayward Jenkins, Ken Clarke, a prisoner serving a twenty-year sentence for sexually assaulting a minor, was killed while being transported to New Orleans East Hospital one year before he was eligible for parole. At that thought, I step off the busy sidewalk into an alley to catch my breath. I bring my hand to my chest as brief memories of my assault flash through my mind. It’s been over ten years since I last saw Ken Clarke, since he came into my room and forced himself on me. I’ve come a long way since that night, the night I learned what it truly means to be helpless, the night I vowed to never feel that way again.
I suppose that’s why I fell so hard for Alister so quickly. The night Ken Clarke raped me was the night I realized I was truly alone, and it was on me to ensure my safety from there on out. But, from the very first night I met Alister, there was something about him that made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Even as he turned me away, he made sure my injuries were tended to and I had a bed to sleep in. He…he took care of me, even though he owed me nothing, even though I was the enemy for all intents and purposes. I’m not certain that Alister is behind Clarke’s death, but the timing seems too coincidental for him not to be. The transport occurred the morning after Alister and I made love, the morning we were meant to say goodbye. I suppose getting rid of Ken Clarke just like Bilieux is his way of doing just that, cementing his words with actions that tell me it’s over. He’s ridding the world of the monsters who seek to hurt me or have hurt me in the hopes that I can move on and live a life without fear, a life without him.
I return to the sidewalk and give my bodyguard, Marcel, a quick nod to let him know I’m okay. As I continue toward my apartment, the crowds continue to thin the farther I get from Bourbon Street, letting me know I’m almost home. Thoughts of home make me remember the moment I saw Alister while still at Vitale’s mercy. I was so out of it at that point a lot of that night is a blur. Well, until it wasn’t. I vaguely remember asking Alister, “Can we go home now?” Maybe it’s just what I was thinking. Maybe I didn’t actually say it. Regardless, that’s what I wanted. I wanted him to pull me into his arms, take me back to Laroux House, and never let me leave. Well, maybe that’s a bit much. I just…I didn’t want him to leave me again, to push me away, to tell me all the reasons why we can’t be together instead of the one reason we should. But over the past few weeks that hope has waned.
Iamgoing home—home to my one-bedroom, first-floor apartment with three locks on the door, a love seat instead of a full couch becausespace, and far too many books for my own good. The only thing that’s missing is a cat to fully embody my singledom. And, in one week, I’ll officially return to my old life. Well, with a new confidant in Ray, a Mafia capo father who doesn’t know I’m an FBI agent, oh, and two bodyguards who take turns following me around. I suppose I should tell my father the truth before Marcel and Timothee figure it out for him. Perhaps that revelation will be the thing that forces him to exile me from his life. Alister always said I can’t be a Mafia princess and an FBI agent at the same time. Then again, maybe my admission will be the thing that brings us closer to one another, the thing that finally eliminates my fear of him abandoning me. I suppose only time will tell.
When I reach the pedestrian-only alley lined with old buildings turned into apartments and businesses alike, I turn and walk toward my apartment halfway down. Like the rest of the historic district, the streetlamps are wrapped in green garland and topped with red velvet bows. It’s nice, especially considering decorating for Christmas has been the last thing on my mind. Come tomorrow, it won’t matter anyway. But for tonight, I enjoy the shades of red and green and the way the lights hanging from the second-story balconies illuminate the concrete walkway. Though, as I reach my front door, I find they illuminate more than the ground.
At the sight of the bright red package, Marcel picks up the pace so he can inspect it for me. But as the cool winter breeze catches on the gift tag tied with a gold ribbon, I see who it’s from and grab it before Marcel reaches me. I motion for him to fall back as I quickly unlock my door and enter my apartment before he can protest. I close the door behind me and immediately lock it before placing the box on the coffee table in my living room. As the package sits, small and unassuming, I take a step back and imagine what could be inside.
A million thoughts race through my mind as I pace the small space. Maybe it’s a gun. No, he would know I already have one. Well, more than one. Besides, it’s not heavy enough. Maybe it’s a watch, like the one he wore in Boston. That did come in handy. A burner phone so we can have private conversations? Maybe a plane ticket to somewhere where I can meet him off-the-grid and we can prolong our not-together-but-totally-in-love-with-each-other relationship? I roll my eyes as my desperation breaks through the tough-girl facade years of loneliness have allowed me to master.
“Okay, this is stupid. Nothing has changed between us. It’s Christmas,” I say as I move to my kitchen in search of some wine. “It’s just a gift. It means nothing because we arenothingto each other.” The untrue sentiment makes my heart squeeze and my mouth go dry with all the emotions I’ve spent the past month trying to suppress. At that, I ditch the wine for whiskey. I grab a glass from the cabinet and retreat to my couch, bottle in hand. Whatever is inside, it changes nothing. I know this. Hence the eighty-proof alcohol. And yet, my heart won’t listen. There is a part of me that hopes this gift changes everything between us. The thought seems impossible after our last meeting and the past month. But there it is—a glimmer of hope resurrected by none other than a perfectly wrapped gift adorned with an ivory gift tag with nothing more than the letterA.
As I plop down on the sofa, I take several deep breaths and a shot of whiskey to prepare for what happens next. Okay, three shots. My tongue numb with liquid courage, I discard the ribbon and slowly remove the wrapping paper. Inside the gift box is another box, although this one is much smaller, made of red leather, and is accompanied by a small note. I take another shot. I’m going to be pissed if this ends up being from some other A-named person. All this anticipation for nothing. But who do I even know—?Focus, Ariana. No more shots.
With all the liquid courage I can muster,literally, I open the box to find a necklace. “Whoa.” On a gold chain hangs an oval-shaped ruby the width of my thumb. It’s surrounded by mini pear-shaped diamonds. It’s stunning. But, up close, I see that it is much more than that. As I lift the box to inspect the stone closer, I see that it is embossed with the Amato family crest, the same crest Alister has hanging on the walls of his office and the Blood Cellar, the same crest embossed onto the family heirloom ring that represents his power as the Blood King. At the sight of it, my lips draw up into a smile and my chest warms. Though, perhaps that’s just the whiskey doing its job.
I’m hesitant to read the note, hesitant to risk this feeling of warmth abandoning me. To stall, I pull the necklace from the box and fasten it around my neck. It’s heavy, which means it’s not easily forgotten, and its beauty makes it impossible to ignore. Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps this is Alister’s way of reminding me of him and of signaling to his allies, those who would know the Amato crest, that I fall under his protection. Or perhaps it’s nothing more than a farewell gift, something he found discarded in the Blood Cellar that he has no emotional connection to whatsoever. As my thoughts run rampant, I finally bring myself to read the note.
I need you to trust me. Until we meet again. —Alister
PS Merry Christmas
Confusion washes over me as I flip the note over in search of something more. That’s it? That’s—Until we meet again.I stare at the note, specifically those words, until my eyes cross and my vision blurs. Alister has always been so careful with his words, careful not to make false promises. And this…this makes it seem like—
