by Kali Brixton
I laugh sardonically. “Then you might as well ask for the moon.”
The DA never cracks a smile. “Is he afraid of Antonio? Indebted to him or just Omerta to the core...?”
“All the above, and then some. My father is old-school, Mrs. Redmond. You do the crime—or even if you don’t, you do the time. You don’t rat.” My father’s words come back to haunt me. “If you do, it’s a punishment worse than death.” Because they go for those you can’t live without first.
Skyla barrels through our resistance. “This isn’t the 1930s or the 1970s. It’s definitely not the old country. I assure you, things have changed.”
Lia scoffs. “Tell that to our father.”
“Those criminals that killed Giacomo are the exception, not the rule by today’s standards. I have several ex-mafia informants who are still walking free on the streets of Atlanta, and the people they helped us bring down are in prison.”
I stand, needing to breathe. “You honestly want us to believe that Antonio wouldn’t come gunning for us if he had his own son killed?”
Skyla stands as well, her spine straight. “Yes, there are risks involved, but the rewards are far greater, especially with full cooperation. Giacomo’s betrayal wasn’t his undoing. It was his sloppiness. Messy business makes less money for all involved. You want to piss the wrong people off? Mess with their finances.”
Still… “If all you’re offering is freedom and immunity, that’s a poor reward for that great a risk, Mrs. Redmond.”
That blue gaze of hers travels down to her wedding ring. “Those who’ve never been taken somewhere against their will or made a prisoner can’t understand how precious freedom is. Take my word for it... The battle’s worth the blood.” Resolve sits firmly in her expression as she raises her head. “I imagine you two can appreciate that, seeing as how you were both auctioned off like cattle into marriages that neither of you wanted.” Lia looks up at me as I narrow my eyes at Skyla, though she never cracks. “Like I said, source of intel.”
“If we talk to our father and convince him to speak with you, can you keep Luca out of it?” Lia’s question throws me for a loop.
“I don’t see why we can’t,” she offers to Lia. “That is...if you can convince Gia to come forward as well.”
And back to the pipe dreams. “How am I going to convince her to help take down her father?”
“Giacomo said his sister isn’t meant for their way of life. We just have to find the leverage he has on her and tug on that string a little. Who knows? Maybe if she sees this will get her out from under his thumb, she’ll come forward willingly.”
The problem with tugging on strings, though, is sometimes when you pull too hard, they tangle and tighten into a noose.
Then you tug those strings back until they snap.
Or make them so tangled that the bastards hang themselves trying to unravel them.
Ev’s words from that conversation in her Jeep years ago flood my mind with the memory of it.
“Damn, Ev,” Kieran rolls his eyes at her, laughing sarcastically. “That’s violent.”
“No, Kieran. That’s war.”
I close my eyes, needing to imagine the scene. We’re wading into a battlefield unlike anything Lia and I have ever seen before. But wars are most commonly won with two things—ammunition and someone who knows all the secrets of the enemy.
If my dad is willing, he can cock the hammer on the gun.
And maybe, just maybe, Gia can help us pull the trigger.
26
Everleigh
Parent-Teacher Night. The new bane of my teaching life.
Luckily for us at Hearst Elementary, the parents are usually very pleasant to deal with and are involved partners in their child’s education. Then you have the ones like I’m facing now.
Deirdre Smith.
Or better known as my middle school, fat-shaming bully extraordinaire.
Well, I should say Deirdre Leiderhoff because she’s now married and mother to one of my newest transfers as of yesterday.
Leiderhoff. The last name that stands out to me, but I can’t figure out why.
Her statuesque frame flounces through the door, dressed to the nines while I’m in my Hearst Elementary polo and khakis. Fabulous. “Everleigh Greene… As I live and breathe.”
Bending my cheeks to resemble a smile, I greet her and the adorable little boy with chestnut hair and big blue-green eyes. “Deirdre. Long time no see.”
She returns my fake smile with one of her own, ignoring the fact that her son is standing by the door frame, looking twenty shades of lost and confused. “I didn’t realize you were a teacher here at Hearst.”
“Been teaching here four years now,” I remark, breezing by her and kneeling in front of the real reason we’re here. “This must be Marc?”
He bites his left pointer finger and stares at me.
“My husband should be here any minute now. You know the type… Work, work, work,” Deirdre calls over my shoulder as I shift my attention to her child. It wouldn’t shock me if she whipped out an emery board and started filing her nails.
Ignoring her nasally voice and equally grating personality, I offer my hand to him and let him come to me, not wanting to overwhelm him as he appears to be pretty anxious at the moment. “My name is Ms. Everleigh, Marc. It’s nice to meet you.” He inches toward my open hand and lays his small right hand in mine, allowing me to shake it gently. “Your mommy and I went to school together.”
But I’ll make sure you have a better experience than I did with the Deirdres of the world.
“Stepmother, dear.” The sound of nails grinding against a gritty piece of metal fills the air. Called it. “Oh, in here, honey.” I glance up from Marc and see a nice-looking guy around my brother’s age standing in the doorway. With the same chestnut hair as his son, they look like Dad-and-lad catalog cutouts. Deirdre goes to grab his face for a kiss, but he turns away, his cheek the only landscape her lips can paint. His pressed suit is sharp, but when I get a decent glance at his face, my stomach sinks.
Because Deirdre’s coveted husband is the man that my protege Maxine sneaks off with at the club every single time he’s there. “Alex Leiderhoff,” he says, reaching his hand to me as I stand up, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Fuck on top of fuck-frosted fuckery.
Realizing I’ve left his hand hanging in mid-air, I extend mine, hoping to cover up my recognition. “I’m sorry. Nice to meet you. I’ll be Marc’s new teacher.”
“Pleasure’s all mine...Ms. Greene, is it?” Nodding, I agree. Still holding my hand in his, he squints his eyes. “Have we met before?”
Deirdre watches the exchange with a hawk eye stare, her blue orbs flicking to her husband’s and my still-joined hands.
I pat the top of his hand with my free hand and nervously titter, pulling my encased one loose from his grasp. “Not to my recollection.”
He bobs his head, but I can still see the wheels turning. “Your voice…it sounds familiar.”
I wave off his comment like it’s nothing, even though he’s more than likely heard me talking to the patrons and the girls there before, given how much time he spends there. “I probably just have one of those voices.”
Deirdre interjects herself between us, both physically and into the conversation. Why not? It’s been a whole twenty seconds since you were the center of attention. “Are you still single or are you going by your maiden name?”
“Still single,” I offer coolly, knowing her question is meant as an insult.
Laughing with her high-pitched hyena cackle, the same one from years ago, she pats her husband’s shoulder with her left hand, the gleam of wealth on her ring finger reflecting off the fluorescent lights above us. “You should’ve seen Everleigh growing up, Alex. She was such a cute little pudgy thing.” Her victorious smirk feels like hot coals being dumped onto my fragile pre-teen soul. “Not at all like how you’ve filled out now, of course.”
At least my “filling
” isn’t all concentrated in a Botoxed forehead or lips that resemble a duck pouting, you miserable pile of polished horse manure.
“Hang in there, honey. I’m sure there’s a guy out there who’ll appreciate your…”—she pauses, raking her gaze over me from head to toe—“Fuller figure.”
You mean men like your husband, who’s eye-fucking my “fuller” figure while you plaster a smug look on that bitchy face of yours, oblivious to his actions? I wonder which is the sleaze’s favorite. My natural DDs he keeps admiring? Or is it my quarter-bouncing ass that’s filling out my khakis like a boss, thankyouverymuch? Because I worked damn hard to sculpt this body. “Unfortunately, we all can’t look as garish—I mean, glamorous as you, Deirdre.”
If only I could say what I’m thinking and not lose my job.
Let’s get this train derailment back on the tracks. I redirect my attention to the little person who’s taking in the veiled hostility between two old foes. “Marc, would you like me to show you where your new table is?”
He nods his head and takes my hand.
His legs toddle beside mine as I walk him around to the side where I keep Rory’s supplies on.
“He doesn’t talk much. His nanny says he loves to read but has trouble with reciting back the words.” She offers, a hint of disdain riding bareback on those words. Typical Deirdre. Can’t even be bothered to help raise her own stepson—or to get to know him, at least.
Grabbing the Sharpies I keep on the highest shelf to avoid any tattoo sessions and phone calls from angry parents, I hold them out for him to peruse. After all, Sharpies in the wrong pair of hands are like the visual equivalent of skunk spray—one wrong move and you’ve got a mess that has to wear off for days on end. “Marc, which color do you like the best?”
He points to the blue one, which I uncap to use on his nameplate. “Blue. That’s an excellent choice. Can you spell your name for me?”
He watches me as I stare down at him, looking uncertain. I give him a kind smile and bend down, placing my marker where he can watch it move. Once he’s certain I’m not gawking at him, syllables trickle out. “M-A-Arrr-Suh-seeeeee.”
I reiterate his letters back to him. “M-A-R-C. Perfect.”
Once I recap the marker, I trace back over the letters as we spell it together.
Looking back to the adults in this poor kid’s life, I give them both a smile because I know having a child with a speech or learning disability can often put a strain on the whole family.
“We were hoping he’d grow out of it, but I guess that’s something he’ll have to learn in school,” Deirdre says flatly. As if this is something that can be fixed by ignoring it.
“We have an excellent school pathologist. I’ll be sure and mention to her about Marc.” I scribble a note on a piece of paper left behind from today’s arts and crafts lesson. “She’ll be in contact with you all about potentially working with him and some exercises you all can do at home to help reinforce their work together.”
“He won’t be labeled, will he?” His father asks, sounding equally concerned and embarrassed, which in my experience, is a common reaction.
I stroke Marc’s thick head of hair as he traces his finger over his name. “Hearst specializes in individualized learning. He may have an IEP or 504 plan for it, but no one will know except those directly involved in his education because it’s confidential. I’m sure you all will agree if it’s what best helps him to succeed in life, it’s worth it.” The looks they give me instill little confidence, but maybe working with the speech pathologist will ease their minds about the whole situation.
I want to throw in that life eventually labels us all in different ways because people cling to names, boxes, and anything that sorts out others for us, but it’s difficult for some to understand that.
Especially people like Deirdre, who often use those labels and boxes to demean others, which is why those types of people worry about them in the first place.
“Think you’ll remember which one’s yours on Monday?”
He nods his head enthusiastically and points to his name again. “M-A-Arrr-Suh-seeeeee.”
I beam with pride. “You got it, kiddo.”
Several other parents filter in and out throughout the rest of the evening, during which Alex and Deirdre give me a curt goodbye and slip out with Marc. One of the saddest realizations I’ve come to as a teacher is that no matter how many available resources a child has at their disposal, if they don’t receive genuine support at home, they’ll always have the deck stacked against them, no matter how hard they try.
Hell, the same can be said for adults as well. Hope House is full of women and children who are living testament to that.
As I clean up the scattered cups and cookie crumbs from around the room, I realize Maxine needs to be told about her regular’s marital status so she can break ties with him.
Because if Deirdre ever finds out her husband is sleeping with a girl at RISE, she’ll tie every single person tethered to the club to the stake with kerosene-soaked ropes and watch us all burn to make a point.
“Madam Isis, do you have a few bobby pins I can use?” Maxine asks as we get ready in the locker room a few days after my parent-teacher meeting with her lover and his wife. I rushed here from school after a long-ass faculty meeting and barely had enough time to throw on my wig and mask, still in my school clothes.
“Sure, just let me unzip this compartment...” My bag slips from my grip and pitches off the side of the bench it was sitting on, scattering its belongings on the floor. St. Peter on a peanut butter cracker, what is with me today? I blow a loose strand from my wig out of my face and kneel to pick up the mess I just made. An extra pair of dress pants from work, gum, a spare mask and wig, packets of cashews, nipple tassels that the girls thought would be so funny to stuff in here, even though they’ll never see the light of day… This bag is like the clown car of duffles.
I stuff the rest down in it and locate the pack of bobby pins—the only thing that didn’t fall out. Go figure. Standing up, I hand the pack to Max, only to find her staring at my work badge that also fell out. A badge with my real name on it.
“You dropped this,” she whispers, exchanging it for the pack of bobby pins.
I’m super spastic about protecting my identity, as my teaching job doesn’t exactly jibe with my RISE connections. Taking it from her hand and quickly pushing it down to the bottom of my bag. “Thanks. I was rushing around…” I trail off as I notice we have an audience.
Keisha emerges from the back and gives us both a frosty look before leaving the locker room. If I don’t punch that girl’s lights out at some point, it’ll be a miracle.
“Your name’s really pretty, Madam Isis,” she interrupts with a warm smile, letting me know my secret’s safe.
Whew. “Thank you,” I offer, knowing how bad it would be if that information fell into the wrong hands. “Maxine, can I talk with you for a moment?”
Her hands busy themselves with the pins. “Sure.”
How to bring this up? “I’ve seen you taking the same guy back to the rooms. I assume he’s someone special to you?“
She pauses her movements, never once looking me in the eye. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Ah, crap. “Boyfriend?”
There’s a pink blush on her cheeks growing by the second. “We’ve been seeing each other a while now.”
I let her words soak in. Awesome. It’s so much fun to get to be the bearer of bad news. “Max, I don’t know how to tell you this, but...he’s married.”
She spins around, shock radiating off her face. Then she lowers her eyes. “I...I know.”
Dammit. I exhale deeply. This wasn’t how I imagined this conversation going. “Look, what you two choose to do is ultimately up to you. But you need to be aware… If his wife ever finds out, she’s not the type who’ll just make him stop coming to RISE. She’s vindictive and will come after you by any means necessary.” Max picks at her nails, looking like a teenager
who just got caught sneaking around with her boyfriend that her father doesn’t approve of. “I enjoy having you around and don’t want you to get tangled in something that could cause you a lot of heartache.” Or the club a lot of trouble. “Just…think about it, will ya?”
She releases her lower lip from her bite. “I will.” Tossing her duffle into her locker, she hesitates to close it. “How’d you know?”
Unable to give the actual answer to her question, I give her a carefully worded one. “I’m familiar with his wife. Seen them out somewhere and recognized him.” It earns me a small nod in return. “Just be careful.”
She walks away, looking conflicted, which I imagine she is now that she knows her affair with a married man comes with a hefty price tag.
Which is why I need to have a serious chat with the girls, and soon. As much as I love helping women find independence and showing them how to handle themselves in sticky situations, if someone were to ever find out my true identity, it could jeopardize things with Rory’s adoption and a job that brings me so much joy.
And that’s a price I can’t afford to pay.
27
Luca
Forks clang against plates as we sit around the Cervelli family dinner table, eating a lavish meal fit for a king. The funeral today for Giacomo was a subdued family affair, with only close relatives and associates in attendance, including my father and me.
After mine and Lia’s meeting with DA Redmond, I find myself analyzing every word anyone has spoken around me today.
“Can you pass the bread?” Gia asks.
Well, maybe not that.
I hand her the breadbasket, receiving a quiet thank you in return. Antonio chews his food thoughtfully as the rest of us eat in silence. Not one tear has been shed today over Giacomo, which is a testament to how disliked the guy was but from his own family? Unless they’re taking the phrase “a stiff upper lip” to heart, I imagine it’s because he won’t be missed all that much.
