by Kelly Wood
“Some things are funny now. Some are funny later. Just making sure you’ll have this when you are ready.” Passion tapped away at her phone screen. “Plus, Peyton is going to want to see this. And, send.”
Tabitha found the courage to look me in my eyes in the mirror. She stared with focus at my ruined head. Clearly weighing the options. “What can you do?” I asked.
“How fast does your hair grow?”
I ignored the question. The answer was obvious.
Not fast enough.
“What happened?” I asked.
“We’ll look into it. I’m very sorry, Regan. We’ll fix this.” Tabitha picked up another strand. It fell apart in her hand. “As best we can.”
“You’d better fix this. What kind of operation are you running here?” Mom pointed her finger at my hair. Jabbing with every word. “I heard what you said earlier. Rats, and pool malfunctions, and, now, ru-ruined hair.”
Tabitha’s face blanched and turned a pale shade of green as my mom spoke. I smiled at Mom with love. She was a fierce protector of her children to the very end. If Passion and I didn’t calm the situation down soon, Mom would call in the local news teams and create a public relations nightmare. It would be a nice gesture for me, but Passion still had a show here that needed to be successful. I didn’t want to ruin her opportunity before it hatched.
“Tabitha? What’s best-case scenario?” I asked. I needed a light at the end of the tunnel. I needed a plan of action. Tabitha studied my face in the mirror, pulling my hair—what was left—in different directions. No matter what she did, small pieces stuck up.
“You look like a half-plowed hay field.”
“Thanks, Grams.” I blinked away the tears that were forming. I’d say just to shave it all, but Passion was right. I did want to look beautiful today. For Gray.
“You have the perfect face for a pixie. Small, cute ears, too. Since we did the shadow root, I could cut it all down. What do you think?” Tabitha rubbed my shoulders in comfort while I listened to her suggestion.
“Is that best-case?” I watched Tabitha’s face in the mirror to see if she was telling the truth.
“Yes, Regan.” She gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to judge what I would look like with short hair. I couldn’t picture it. It was just too drastic of a change.
“Just do it,” I whispered. One, lone tear slipped out. I cleared my throat to prevent any others from escaping. I might be bald for my wedding because it was out of my control, but I could prevent puffy eyes.
“Could we donate it?” Passion asked. “I mean, the rest of it.”
“We could,” Tabitha said but without any conviction. I got the feeling she was just saying it to appease me. Everyone was tensed and walking on eggshells with every suggestion. They sensed I could easily crack.
Tabitha pulled my hair into two pony tails and snipped them above the bands. She laid them down out of my sight. She started with clippers and buzzed the hair around my ear and the nape of my neck before picking up her shears.
I watched every movement with an intensity reserved for Olympic judges. She worked quickly, but smoothly. She molded and shaped and cut. Tabitha explained every step as she went, what product I should use, and how to use it. The difference in the style was drastic, but I had to admit, complimentary to my face. Where my long hair pulled my features down, the shorter version lightened it. My cheekbones became more prominent. My green eyes brightened. Almost glowing. Oddly, my lips looked fuller.
Tabitha spun the chair to face me away from the mirror. She excused herself while I looked up into the faces of Mom, Grams, and Passion. Nobody spoke, but I could see it in their eyes. They noticed the transformation, too.
Tabitha returned with reinforcements. Two other stylists joined us to help finish us up, the damaged hair having left us short on time. Grams took one look at the spunky young girl with spiky pink hair and claimed her for herself.
“I want that.” Grams pointed to her head. “But, in blue. Blue is my signature color.”
A hiccup escaped me masked as a giggle. I mouthed ‘I love you’ to Grams. She was showing her own support by cutting her hair off, too. Not that she had as much hair as me to start, but I loved the thought.
Mom sat in the chair next to me shooting me glances filled with worry. Her stylist quickly applied her makeup. Grams could be heard across the shop telling her stylist about her new beau. Passion had disappeared to somewhere. Her flighty personality would bring her back sometime.
“As much as this pains me to say, you could postpone the ceremony,” Mom suggested.
“Who are you and what have you done with my mother?” I asked.
“It’s just a thought, Regan.”
“I know. This will sound terrible, but I just want to get it over with. If we postpone, then what? For how long?” I waved Tabitha away from my face so I could look at my mom. I reached out for her hand. She stretched out to take mine. “I appreciate the thought, Mom. But, it’s okay. Today’s the day.”
I let her think I was strong about the situation, but I was really being selfish. I didn’t want to have to start over. Passion took care of everything today. I liked the thought of just walking in, of my only responsibility being to get there. I closed my eyes and let Tabitha resume my makeup application.
Passion returned to tell Tabitha all of the open bottles of products had been thrown away and new ones were in their place. Tabitha’s theory was someone had switched the different color developers. With everything else happening, it made sense. While Tabitha thought she was pulling out a soft caramel color, the use of the wrong developer brought out the white blonde, frying my dark hair. It didn’t matter at this point. What was done was done.
“Are you ready?” Tabitha asked. She had firmly affixed her polished veneer back into place. Gone was the country twang. She twisted the chair around to the mirror.
I sat forward in awe. Tabitha had used minimal makeup, but the effect was dazzling. My hair style looked like a throwback to Halle Berry’s short style, messy and sexy. My eyes looked lit from behind. Gloss highlighted my lips letting their natural berry hue shine through. I touched my cheek, testing to see if it was really me. My nails were shaped and filed and painted a medium gray.
I looked to Passion for confirmation.
“You’re even prettier than me,” Passion said.
“But, will Gray think so?”
“If he’s smart.”
Chapter Nineteen
I insisted on Gray seeing me before the wedding. Nobody protested since they understood my logic. If I shocked Gray with this new change while walking down the aisle toward him and he didn’t like it, it would break my heart.
Passion entered the room first. The plan was Passion would position Gray with his back to the door so I could enter. She would turn him around after I was in place and prepared for his reaction.
I nodded to Passion. She gripped Gray’s arms preparing to turn him around. Mom and Grams stood on either side of me for moral support. I kneaded my hands together in front of me waiting for his response.
I watched Gray’s eyes as they traveled from my feet up my body. Worry clouded his face when he reached my hands. His eyes moved again and locked on my face. His smile shone from within.
“You look beautiful.” Gray whispered the words. I touched the back of neck with insecurity. The skin felt exposed and vulnerable.
“Really?”
“Yes. You look... you look...” Gray crossed the room, putting his hands on my waist. I leaned back in his arms so he could continue to look at the new me.
“Prettier than Passion?” I prompted.
“You always have been,” Gray said. Passion rolled her eyes behind him. I laughed. “You ready to tie the knot?”
“You’ll have to meet me at the altar to find out.” I winked at him and planted a kiss on his lips.
Now, here I was, dressed and ready to go. I asked for time a
lone before the ceremony. I still had no idea what Passion’s plan was, but it involved one of the banquet rooms at the hotel. At first, I started to protest. I didn’t realize I always assumed I’d get married in a church until the option wasn’t there. My mom smoothed over that fire. She pointed out God was everywhere, we didn’t need a chapel to be married in his eyes.
I paced the room wringing my hands. I wanted to bite my nails even though that was a habit I’d broken as a teenager. Banging, clanging and voices carried through the door. I was in an annex of the banquet room. Extra chairs and tables were stacked around me.
A knock at the door caught my attention. Confusion marred my face at who it could be. Any of my family members would’ve barged right in. I opened the door to Gray’s father, Michael. He looked dashing in a dark tuxedo.
“May I?” Michael gestured with his hand toward the room. I stepped back allowing him entrance. I started to close the door but left it ajar an inch. I turned to face him, running my hand down the back of my neck. I was still adjusting to the exposed and vulnerable feeling.
“Your haircut is very becoming on you.” I smiled and made myself stop fidgeting. I clasped my hands in front of my stomach loosely.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Your marriage to Gray came as a shock, especially with how quickly it has progressed in the last couple of days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, Regan, call me Michael.” I nodded my head. “I welcome you to the family with open arms. Eventually Mary Francis will, too.” I relaxed my shoulders when Michael smiled after the comment.
“There are some things I must talk to you about before the ceremony. I’d planned on a casual chat like old friends, but I’m on a time constraint.” Again, he smiled, but this time it had the opposite effect. He wanted to put me at ease, but I just wanted to run. I got the impression I was watching a well-choreographed show. Smile here, joke there. Woman becomes a nodding nitwit and does whatever man wants. I raised my hackles in defense.
“Er—Michael, Gray told me about your... business. I’m aware, so we don’t really need to have this conversation.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me expand on it.” I started to protest, but Michael held up his hand to stop me. “We take marriage very seriously in our... family. Once you’re in, you’re in. There will be no divorce or walking away.” Michael’s eyes locked on mine, conveying his real message. When Gray proposed originally, I had a minor freak-out and ran away to another country. Gray popped the question in Mexico. For Michael to know of it here—in Vegas—he was letting me know his reach. The threat was duly noted.
“I believe I understand what you are saying. But, for the record, I may be marrying your son, but I am not marrying the family. Gray and I will do our own thing. We’ll live wherever we want and do whatever we want. Just like we do now. Am I making myself clear?”
“That would be difficult without a trust fund,” Michael threatened.
I scoffed. “Go ahead. Take it away. I didn’t even know about it until recently and Gray barely touches it. It wouldn’t affect our lifestyle in the least. You’ll need a better threat.”
Michael’s eyebrows raised in surprise. I realized that I just told a mafia Don no. Twice. But it was too late to back down now. I squared my shoulders and stuck my hands on my hips. My heart raced but I took long even breaths to slow it down.
“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?” I asked. It was moments like this where I wished I was able to raise one eyebrow. It was very cocky and I liked it. Humor flickered across Michael’s face. Just as quickly disappearing.
“I can see what Gray loves about you. Do you believe in nature versus nurture? You see, Gray was raised in this lifestyle and it’s in his blood. I want you to ponder that. This is who he is. You either need to be all in and commit, or all out and walk away.” Michael’s smile dropped. His eyes lost their sparkle. All feeling left his face. Standing before me was a genuine sociopath. I shivered.
“That’s enough.” Michael and I both startled at the sound of my father’s voice, the battle between us having commanded full attention from both of us.
My dad stood in the doorway, tall and proud. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, but his hair still stood on end. The rented tuxedo gave him a dashing, but deadly look. A little James Bond-like. I wanted to run into his arms, but I held myself back knowing it would look weak in Michael’s eyes. My dad walked toward me and put his arm across my shoulders. I snaked my arm around his waist, feeling the bulge of a gun in the small of his back. Dad’s move was strategic. Michael would never suspect the threat to come from me if the need arose. And thanks to Dad, I was a great shot. Almost as good as him.
I knew Michael was smart enough not to have any violence erupt here, though. Tonight especially. Gray would never forgive him for hurting me. I patted the gun. Feeling comfort just knowing it was there.
“I’ve heard what you had to say and I have a family of my own who’s skirted the law. Gray and I will make our lives together somewhere, but I can guarantee it won’t be here. I’m all in, with Gray. Got it? Now, excuse me, I’d like a moment with my dad.”
I gave Michael my best stony stare until he left the room.
Chapter Twenty
Franky August 1988
“You’ve lost your touch, Costa.” Milano’s gravelly voice spoke from the shadows. His gun pointed at Garrett’s chest. Franky stood silently a few feet from Bianchi. He slowly moved toward Bianchi, using his body as a shield for his boss.
“Check ‘em,” Milano spoke to his henchman.
“Running low on help these days?” Costa asked. He seemed just as relaxed as he had been in the house without a gun pointed at him.
“You thought you’d get me? Me? I’ve been running this town since before you were born.” Milano’s chin jutted out at Costa and then Bianchi. “Since you were a punk street fighter.”
“Times they are a changin’, old man,” Costa said. Bianchi’s body was tensed, poised to strike if and when the opportunity presented itself.
Milano’s man patted down Franky while keeping his eyes and his gun on Bianchi. He knew Franky wouldn’t make a move with his boss’s life in danger. Franky was relieved of his three pieces. Two were tucked away into the man’s coat. The third he held on Franky as he stepped away.
“What’s your name?” Franky asked him.
“Shut it,” the man said. He must be one of Milano’s street crew. Franky’d never seen him before. Milano was scraping the bottom of the barrel. His other men were either dead or jumped ship.
“Not much muscle left these days. Where did you find this one?” Milano didn’t acknowledge Franky’s comment. Franky hoped Milano would keep talking, giving him time to think of a way out of the situation. Franky, Costa and Bianchi outnumbered Milano and his helper but they’d been caught with their pants down. Milano held all the chips right now.
“What’d you think? You think you’d take me down?” Milano jabbed his gun at the men as he spoke. “Now who’s done? You cocky pissants, standing out here with no backup.”
“Are you positive?” Costa asked. His hands rested in his pants pockets like he was out for an evening stroll. Personally, Franky thought it was a bad practice. Hands tucked in pockets prevented swift reactions when needed. Although Franky would bet Costa was playing Milano psychologically at this point, trying to look relaxed without a care in the world.
“Yes, I’m pos’tive. We checked. I’ll take joy in killing you both myself.” Franky hoped Costa could keep him talking. Franky still had access to his knife. He couldn’t trigger the release without a swift movement of his arm, but he may be able to if he could get the right angle away from Milano’s thug.
“This is over, Charles,” Costa said. Antonio had yet to speak. Frank locked eyes with Bianchi before taking a small step forward. Franky’s movement kept his body between the thug and Bianchi, but Franky hoped Antonio unde
rstood what Franky needed him to do. Antonio may have been off the streets for years, but he kept himself in shape by boxing three days a week. Franky would choose him in a street fight any day of the week. Franky needed Bianchi’s speed and strength now.
Milano’s gaze locked on Costa’s giving Franky a chance to take another small step. One more and he’d be in position.
“Are you aware of your biggest flaw? Arrogance. You should’ve shot us from the tree line like a coward,” Costa said.
“I wanted you to know who was ending you. I wanted you to know who’ll still be on top.”
Another step.
“My point exactly. Arrogance,” Costa said while Franky pushed his wrist into his hip bone. The release made a small popping noise, but Costa’s words covered it. Franky watched Antonio and his man, but neither seemed to have noticed. “It has always been your weakness.”
“Who’s weak now?” Milano used the gun again for emphasis. Franky could see the cracks in Milano’s demeanor. Being hunted down by Bianchi and Costa had taken its toll on the old man. Milano knew he couldn’t win. Even if he killed then all, right here and now, others would fight for the chance to control the families. The first order would be to find Milano and kill him. No matter what, Milano knew his days were numbered without a network of his own. His only hope was to kill these men and hope the chaos it caused gave Milano enough time to sneak out of town and disappear. With sweat popping across his brow, Milano used his sleeve to wipe it away. He’s wasn’t in as much control as he’d wanted to project. He was scared and hoping to make one last stand. This night would make or break him. He knew he was coming to an end.
The knife slid down into Franky’s palm. He used tiny movements to wiggle it down until the hilt was in his hand. Franky kept the knife against his leg, hoping the shadows would conceal it.
