by Cecy Robson
“All right, boss,” another says.
Vin’s focus darts my way. He expects an approving nod from me. But he isn’t going to get it. As much as I’m a part of this shit, it doesn’t mean I like it.
Or that I don’t want out.
I climb into my Range Rover and shut the door tight. Vin’s hand is shaking as he takes a drag of his cigarette. I knew he wasn’t going to keep it together for long, so I made it like he needed to be away from the cleanup in case someone heard the shots and called it in.
“Is Donnie coming?” he asks, sprawling across the back seat.
“Yeah. She’s picking out girls she thinks you might like. Says she’ll be right out.”
I snagged Donnie at a street festival a few blocks away, after I secured Vin in my ride. She flung her arms around me and started crying when she saw me. I quickly pulled her off me and lead her to Vin. Donnie cares as much as someone like her can, and mostly for all the wrong reasons. I know this and, maybe, she does, too, which is why we’re outside a strip club Vin owns waiting on her and whoever she’s recruiting to lift Vin’s spirits.
“How many girls is she bringing?”
“Two, maybe more,” I answer, not because she told me, but more because this has become the norm.
“Yeah, she knows how to take care of me,” he says with a laugh, despite how his hand continues to tremble.
This isn’t the first time Vin’s killed with his hands or the first time I’ve watched him do it. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t fucked with my mind or given me more nightmares to stash in my memories. Christ, it took all I had not to puke, seeing all those bodies lying in a mound and the mess Vin made of Angelo’s head. But I still have a conscience. Real mob bosses surrender theirs to get what they need. If he’s going to be one, he needs to lose what’s left of his, fast.
He takes another drag, his forced humor fading. “How long has Angelo been playing two sides?”
“No idea,” I mumble.
He straightens. “Then how did you know Angelo was in on it?”
I rub my eyes. I’m only twenty-seven and I already feel too old for this shit. “He tensed at the same time, and in the same way Arturo and his second did.”
Vin curses under his breath and reaches for another cigarette. “I didn’t see shit and I was looking at them the whole time. How the hell do you pick up on these things?”
“It comes from the years I spent fighting,” I answer, looking out through my tinted windows and wondering what the hell is keeping Donnie.
“In the octagon?” Vin asks.
Vin knows I fought in the mixed martial arts circuit for a few years, just like he knows I fought anyone who messed with me on the street. We’ve known each other since we were kids, long before his father became the most feared man in Jersey. I’m not sure why he’s asking, but don’t bother to question it. Vin isn’t the same guy I once called a friend.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “It helped me anticipate my opponent’s next move.”
“You miss that shit?” he asks.
Considering I was on my way to becoming the next light heavyweight champion? Hell, yeah. Fighting in the MMA put money in my pocket and gave me a way to unleash my rage. But neither were enough when push came to shove. “It was all right,” I tell him.
Vin takes a few more drags before he says, “I want you to think about watching my back full-time. I’ll pay you a hell of a lot more if you do.”
Any other boss would just tell me this is what I’m doing and not give me a choice. But for all Vin’s not the same guy I once knew, he was there when my world imploded around me. And in hiring me to watch his mistress, he’s able to keep me on the mob payroll without staining my hands with their blood. That doesn’t mean I haven’t made a lot of people bleed. It only means I haven’t killed anyone. Yet.
“I make enough watching your gumad,” I respond.
Vin doesn’t like my answer, but he doesn’t push it. After what went down with Angelo, and with his second serving time, I’m the only person he completely trusts. But, despite our friendship, the time’s coming when I’ll no longer have a choice but to do what he wants.
In killing Arturo, Vin will either gain respect from the other bosses or turn them against him and the family. I don’t think any of the higher-ups want war, but they’re greedy and looking to expand their domains. My gut tells me that when Vin’s father Carmine dies, the cards unfold. But they won’t be in Vin’s favor, and if he doesn’t wise up fast, none of us will make it out alive.
The back door to the strip club opens and Donnie steps out, leading three laughing and almost naked women in clear heels forward.
“I won’t forget what you did for me today, Sal,” Vin says, right before the women pile in.
He won’t. I know that. Just like I know I added a nail to my own damn casket the day I went to him for help.
I’m supposed to take Vin and his dates back to Donnie’s. But Vin’s not waiting to get there. I crank the engine when I hear his zipper yanked down and the first sound of smacking lips. He groans, likely relieved the day is finally going in the direction he wants.
“You, go take care of my buddy, Sal,” he says between sharp intakes of breath.
I stiffen and not in a good way, when a blonde with more hairspray than brains falls laughing into the front seat. With a hard stomp, I step on the brake and set my SUV in park. She’s already naked by the time I reach into the center console and shove a condom in her hand.
She huffs. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not.”
She looks insulted, but I don’t care. She’s going to do what Vin’s paying her to do, whether I want her to or not. It takes a while for me to get hard enough for her to roll the condom in place. Once she does, she immediately buries her face in my lap.
I lean my head back against the headrest. I should enjoy what’s happening. And at one point I did, seeing it as the perks of the job.
Now, all I wonder about is how my life became what it is, and how I’ll ever survive it.
Chapter Two
Adrianna
There’s a knock on my door. I look up to the wall of glass reinforced with wire to see Tamira Jones. At my smile, she opens the door. “Hey, Miss Aedry. You got a minute?”
I lift the file on Apollo Romero I was reviewing and set it aside. “Of course. Come in, Tamira.”
When I started working as a guidance counselor a year and a half ago, the students at James Harris High School took one look at my light skin and blue eyes and heard traces of my southern accent, and quickly sought help elsewhere. Two things worked in my favor: my patience, and the school’s limited resources. Aside from me, Miss Jalisa is the only other counselor available for an excess of thirteen hundred students, and the majority are in serious need of counseling.
Jalisa, with over a decade of experience in the Jersey City school system, hung on to her more challenging cases, but began shuffling kids my way. Among them was Tamira.
At first, Tamira was extremely tight-lipped and defensive. Like most of the kids raised in the inner city, she’s seen and experienced a dark side of life no one should ever know. She’s hard, way harder than she should be at fifteen. But she’s still a kid. And while she recognized how different we are, she also recognized I genuinely wanted to help.
She shuts the door behind her and plops down on my brown pleather couch, slipping her heavy bookbag from her shoulders and onto the industrial gray carpet. I sit beside her and cross my legs, causing the hem of my dark blue dress to brush against my shins. In one swoop, she takes me in, from my dark hair down to my tan pumps. My clothes are casual, comfortable, and very different from the tight jeans and shirt that hug and accentuate her generous curves. “You know you’re never going to get a man wearing that,” she tells me.
I smile. This isn’t the first time Tamira has inferred I need a man. I don’t bother to tell her that I don’t need one, even though it’s true. But there are moments when I real
ly want one, despite how many have disappointed me in the past.
“Is it the shoes?” I ask, wiggling my foot.
She motions dramatically. “That’s part of it. Miss Aedry, you’re a hot woman. Hot women wear hot shoes. Get yourself a pair of red stilettos, and you’ll get yourself a man.”
I grin. “Are you saying there’s hope for me yet?”
“Yah. You just need to stop dressing like you’re going to church all the time.”
She laughs when I do. As my smile softens, so does her humor. “So how are you doing?” I ask.
Her lips tighten to a straight line before she says, “I’m pregnant.”
My heart breaks a little, but I try not to let it show. Tamira’s grades had started to improve last semester, following tutoring sessions with me after school. Just the other day, we’d met to discuss college, her hope building now that she was doing better in her classes. “Is this something you’d planned?” I ask carefully, knowing how lonely she always seems. She shakes her head slowly. “Would you want to talk about it?”
Her attention travels to the window, even though the shades are partially closed to ease the bright October sunlight. “I was out with Keon around three in the morning the other week. We had sex in his car over at Lincoln Park. The condom broke.”
The details she shares come from her trust in me, and because she’s scared. My grandma would tell her to go to church and get some morals. My mother would question what a fifteen-year-old was doing out at three in the morning having sex in a public place. And my father would point out that if she’d been taught abstinence in school, instead of being given condoms in health class, she wouldn’t be in this mess. But I was raised in the bible belt of North Carolina, and so were they. Yet, unlike me, they never left and saw how harsh the rest of the world can be.
According to her file, Tamira was raped for the first time when she was five by her mother’s boyfriend, then again at seven by the next man her mother invited into her bed. So, I don’t judge, or reprimand, or turn my back. Instead, I clutch her hand and give it a squeeze. “Aside from the condom breaking, what makes you think you’re pregnant?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
“I was supposed to get my period last week and it didn’t come.”
“You’re still young and your cycle may not always be regular.”
She tilts her head in my direction. “You sayin’, I’m not pregnant?”
“I don’t know, Tamira. It may be too early to tell.” I release her hand and reach for the business cards I keep on my end table and pass one to her. “I think the first thing you need to do is see a medical professional. This is Autumn Stone. She’s a midwife at the clinic and a friend of mine. Call and make an appointment and ask to see Autumn specifically. If the receptionist gives you a hard time, tell her I sent you.”
“Is she nice?” she asks, keeping her attention on the card. “This lady you’re sending me to?”
“Yes,” I answer quietly.
When her dark brown eyes meet mine, it’s all I can do not to tear up. “Like you?” she asks.
“Autumn is really sweet,” I assure her, my voice splintering. “We were roommates in college.”
She nods and shoves the card in her backpack. When she meets my face again, she laughs. “Miss Aedry, you worry too much. I’m going to be fine. Me and any baby who comes along.”
It’s what she claims, but I recognize the fear behind that tough outer layer. I’m not supposed to touch my students. Given my line of work and the stories I hear, some days it takes all I have not to reach out and hug them. Today is one of those days. But I do give her hand another squeeze. “I know you’re scared, but I’m here if you need me.”
Tamira rolls her eyes, laughing, but then her resolve crumbles and the first of her tears release. I let her cry, because, for now, it’s the only way I can help her.
Yet, as quickly as those tears come, they abruptly stop. She dabs her eyes with the tissues I pass her. In the silence that follows, that harsh city kid I’ve come to know and adore returns. She stands, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and pointing at me. “You’re too much like a mom,” she tells me. “Get yourself some hot clothes and shoes and it won’t take you long to have your own kids to worry about.”
She’s trying to make a joke in order to lock up her vulnerability and keep it safe. It’s what’s helped her survive everything she’s been through. But I don’t bother to tell her something she already knows. “I’ll work on the shoes,” I promise.
“And the church clothes?”
I widen my smile. “That might take a few paychecks.”
She shakes her head and walks to the door. As it shuts behind her, my worry for her surges. Keon Monroe, the potential father, already has another child, whom he occasionally supports with the money he makes selling drugs. He’s had sex with several young girls who attend the high school. Tamira should know this, since it’s no secret. But, like the others, I’m sure she fell victim to his looks and devious charm.
Damn it.
I rise and return to my desk. For the moment, I can’t help Tamira. But maybe I can help someone else. My attention returns to the file I was reviewing before she stopped by. Apollo Romero is a freshman who’s already missed nine days of school, including today. What’s odd is his brother Gianno, a junior, hasn’t missed one.
Gianno is a gifted athlete who made the varsity wrestling team his first year. He and Apollo have so-so grades, despite their teachers believing they have tremendous academic potential. They’ve been in trouble for fighting outside of school, but it’s what they were subjected to in their home environment that disturbs me more. According to reports, their estranged father killed their mother in a jealous rage before killing himself. Apollo, only eight at the time, had let their father into the apartment. Gianno, only ten, had suffered multiple injuries trying to protect her.
These poor boys watched their mother and father die. I clutch my chest. Is it no wonder these kids have acted out? I flip through the folder, wondering if a relative took them in or whether they’re in the foster system. My brows knit when I see custody was granted to their brother six years ago. “What in the world?”
I pull the file closer. Salvatore Romero, who was only twenty-one at the time, fought for several long months to gain custody. How could a man so young be awarded guardianship? His actions were noble, but, my goodness, he was just a kid himself. I flip through the pages, thinking matters through. A court battle like this must have been costly, especially when represented by what appears to be private counsel. I skim down the page, searching for his occupation, assuming he must work as a plumber or in another trade that pays well. I pause when I see that he works in public relations . . . at night.
“This can’t be right,” I say out loud. I find a contact number and reach for my office phone to make a call until I catch sight of the long list of messages left by school staff.
My head falls into my hand. According to the email from Apollo’s homeroom teacher, if Apollo misses one more day, he’ll be automatically suspended.
I call the main office. “Hello, Mrs. Glenn,” I say when she answers. “This is Adrianna Daniels. I need to meet with Gianno Romero, a junior—”
“The junior class is on a field trip to the museum today, Miss Romero,” she interrupts. “Do you want his homeroom teacher’s voicemail?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right,” she answers and abruptly disconnects, having felt I wasted enough of her time.
Maybe it’s her “I could care less” response, or Tamira, or the countless other kids I’ve lost to the streets in the short time I’ve worked here. Whatever the reason, I’m not ready to put this case aside.
I pick up my phone and call Jalisa. There’s still an hour left in school and I’d blocked off the time to catch up on paperwork, but it will have to wait. “Hey,” I say when she answers. “You know how we’re allowed to do home visits when a case deeply warrants it?”
She pauses. “Yes?”
I glance back at the file. “Well, I have one that fits the bill . . .”
I drive my trusty white Volkswagen Beetle through one of the rougher sections of the city, but when my navigation system takes me past the area and into one of the more up and coming neighborhoods, I’m more than a little surprised. I find a spot across the street from the building when I realize the underground garage is strictly reserved for its residents.
Perhaps it’s better. It might be a nice neighborhood, but I avoid garages at all costs. I make my way quickly across the street, shuddering when the brisk air smacks against my legs and billows my skirt. I stop in front of the main door. Unlike the other mailboxes, the Romero residence isn’t marked by a name. But I have the apartment number and that’s all I need. That, and access to the lobby, which I quickly gain when an older woman slips out.
The building can’t be more than a few years old, something I find confusing. If Mr. Romero can afford something this upscale, I don’t understand why he isn’t more invested in his brothers’ futures.
I tried calling him to warn him that I was stopping by, only to hear a deep male voice on the voicemail say, “You know what to do,” followed by a beep. The blatant arrogance in his tone shocked me and left me with an impression that this so-called guardian is nothing more than a thug. But given where he and the boys live, I can only determine he’s too caught up in himself to worry about those who clearly need him as a role model.
I slip out of the elevator and hurry to apartment 4B, stopping only to text Jalisa and let her know I arrived. I take a breath before knocking, reminding myself I’m a strong, educated woman despite my young age, and that there’s no reason to be intimidated. When only silence greets me, I tell myself I can’t just give up. This boy needs me, so I knock again. By my third knock, I’ll admit, I’m discouraged. How can I help Apollo if his one parental influence is constantly unavailable? I knock again, this time harder. If this Salvatore guy is truly a PR rep who works evenings, he should be home―
