“That’s suspect,” murmurs Molly.
“You think?” Finn snaps. “Please, help me get through to Mom.”
“That’s why you came?” Molly’s voice is hard and cold. “You want your mother to be some sort of figurehead for your anti-Avellino campaign?”
“Fuck, when you put it like that—”
“It sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Because it is, Finnegan. Your mom is in a good place right now, and you want her to unearth all that pain just to satisfy your hate for Rafael Avellino? A dead man? Not happening. Don’t make me bring your sisters into this.”
“Aunt Mol—”
“I will protect this family,” she declares, “even from you. Now get out of my house. I need to cool off before I say something I regret.”
A few moments later, the front door slams.
“You can come down now, Calli.”
My heart hammering, I descend the stairs to the living room. Molly stands near the picture window, gazing onto the street. Likely watching her nephew storm off.
“I really handed him his ass, didn’t I?” she asks, smiling sadly as she turns toward me. “Go ahead, ask me why.”
“You said why. For your sister.”
I look outside. Across the narrow lane, Finn gets into his rental car. He doesn’t turn it on but merely sits there, staring out the windshield with his hands clenched on the wheel. And though I try not to feel anything, sympathy rises in me.
“That wasn’t the real reason,” says Molly on a pensive sigh. “Meredith would have no problem telling him no herself—if she ever gives him a chance to ask. He has some serious groveling to do before that even happens.”
Surprised, I look at her. “Why, then?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” Her troubled eyes meet mine. “The poor boy is hurting and I sent him away with angry words.”
“You’re scared,” I tell her bluntly, glancing outside to see that Finn has driven away. “And you were right to discourage him. It’s no accident his investigators failed. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s up against.”
Molly gazes at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Then it’s all true? The Avellinos are modern-day mafia?”
I shrug, my stomach leaden. “Not really. I don’t know. They might be worse.”
She draws a slow breath. “If he keeps after this…”
I nod, confirming her worst fear.
“You have to talk to him, Calli. Please. Tell him whatever you have to. Make him drop this.”
I think of my uncle, the fever in his eyes as he plotted against his family. Finn’s eyes held the same light.
He won’t stop until he’s dead, and if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that there’s absolutely nothing I can say that will sway a man hell-bent on righteous revenge.
But I owe Molly, so I tell her, “I’ll try.”
8
Solstice Bay is a small town, and there are only so many places to go. I check the motel first, but his car isn’t there, so I drive through the center of town, then to the cove. It’s not much—a small stretch of grass and a weathered stone bench sitting above a tiny, rocky inlet. The larger bay, which most of the town’s economy depends on, is four miles south.
The weather has taken another turn, the winds picking back up. The sky is a distressed, gunmetal shade. No rain yet, but dark clouds sit ominously on the horizon.
Perfect for a doomed conversation.
Finn sits on the bench, elbows on his knees as he stares at the intersection of the sky and his thoughts.
I park behind his rental car and get out before I can talk myself out of what I’m doing. It’s for Molly. I owe her.
But as I walk toward him, my hood up against the cold wind, I can’t help but notice the broad swath of his back, the powerful shoulders, and I can’t help remembering the way he kissed me, like he was staking his claim on more than my body.
By the time I reach him, I’m not cold anymore. Even though he hates me, is disgusted by my very existence. Even though he’ll never touch me again… my body still wants to finish what we started last night.
He looks up as I enter his line of vision. Steeling myself, I meet his cold blue eyes. Sadly, the vitriol pouring out of him isn’t the turn-off it should be.
I clear my throat. “Can we talk?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.” Gravelly, tired voice, thick with resentment.
“Okay, but I’d still like for you to hear me out.”
“About what, exactly?”
“My fucked-up family, for starters, and that going after them is a bad idea.”
His eyes narrow. “Molly sent you.”
I nod, then gesture to the bench. “May I?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he scoots down—way down—until most of the bench is empty and he’s perched on one corner. He’s gone back to staring at the horizon, a clear indicator that whatever I have to say won’t affect him. Probably true, but I have to try.
Settling on the bench, I shift to face him, my gaze wandering shamelessly over his chiseled profile, the generous lips currently pressed into a thin line. Why does he have to be so tragically beautiful?
It takes effort to pull my gaze away, to focus my thoughts and decide what to tell him. I haven’t spoken of the past in so many years, it feels odd—and frankly, frightening—to tell the truth.
A memory swells, hitting me like a wave.
“When I was eight, my uncle took me to visit my father in prison. My father was livid when he saw me. We—his children—weren’t allowed to visit him. I thought it was because he didn’t want us to see him in a position of weakness, but looking back I realize he was afraid. He and my uncle fought in the way they did—in hushed, rapid Italian. I didn’t understand most of it, but what I did hear was the threat. My father told my uncle to be careful on the slippery road.”
“Where are you going with this?”
Tucking my shaking hands in my pockets, I continue, “Three weeks later, my uncle was dead from a supposedly senseless drive-by shooting.”
More memories—the suited men showing up at my school, pulling me from class. The sympathy in my teacher’s eyes. My stunned classmates. The flashing lights of paparazzi outside as I was guided into a car. My stepmother, waiting inside to break the news… and the small white envelope she handed to me, with two, one-way plane tickets inside.
A message that even at eight years old, I understood.
“No one talked about his death. There was no wake, no funeral, no reading of a will. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. Erased from the family.”
“If your point is that the Avellinos are dangerous, you can stop talking. In case you’ve forgotten, they killed my dad.”
Each word is a little zap of pain to my chest.
“I’m sorry, Finn. Truly I am.” Looking up from my lap, I meet his stormy gaze. “I have three uncles, but Uncle Anthony was everything to me. He died because he was going to take me away, and he was arrogant enough to think no one would figure out what he was planning. After he was killed, I knew I would do everything in my power to get far, far away from them.”
“Why did your uncle want to take you away?” The question is angry, like he’s annoyed he feels compelled to ask.
Swallowing hard, I remind myself he can’t possibly know how hard this is for me, to talk about the life I left behind. He wants answers, and rightfully so. But unfortunately, I don’t have the ones he wants. The whys and hows.
“There are certain, um… responsibilities for the firstborn child. Old-world, traditional stuff. Maintaining the family’s pedigree through marriage, ensuring continued alliances, et cetera. Maybe Anthony knew I wasn’t cut out for all that was expected of me. He was always saying I was too soft.”
His gaze spears me. “They really are the mob, huh?”
“I don’t really know. That word was never spoken, and God help you if you used it in my father’s hearing.” I pause, surprised by
the twinge of longing for my father’s gruff voice. “I think that’s part of what makes them so dangerous—the idea that their power and wealth puts them above the law.”
“Yeah, I’ve looked into their financials. The public stuff, anyway. Finance, oil, and real estate. All above-board.” He scoffs. “But they’re not, are they?”
Thinking of my uncle, I whisper, “No,” then clear my throat. “And before you ask, I don’t have some magical USB drive packed with incriminating evidence against my family. My stepmother never trusted me enough to include me in any of the family’s business dealings.”
“Why not?”
I should have known the question was coming, but it still surprises me. Also surprising—the ease with which more truth spills out.
“I’m a spitting image of my mother, who died from an aneurism when I was a year old. My father loved her deeply. On her birthday every year, he’d get drunk and lock himself in his office for hours to look through old photo albums. A few times, he let me join him. Vivian put a stop to that. God, I still remember the yelling when those albums went missing.”
Finn’s lips part, and for a moment I expect him to offer sympathy. But then his gaze hardens.
Before he can speak, I tell him, “Behind her smiling, motherly public persona, Vivian is the worst of them all. If I hadn’t been there when my father had his heart attack, I would have suspected she killed him.”
“And now she wants to be a governor.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t shocked when the news broke. She’s always had high aspirations. She likes to be seen and heard. And since she’s head of the family now, she runs everything, can do whatever she wants.”
“Your other uncles…” He trails off, but the question is clear.
“Sheep,” I say, repeating what Uncle Ant told me long ago. “Raised to follow, not lead. No wives, no children. They’re married to the family.”
Finn broods silently. Waves crash below us—a tumultuous suck and rush as the storm closes in. Absorbed in the ocean’s song, I almost don’t hear his soft question.
“Where have you been the last six years?”
Drifting. Hiding. Surviving.
I hedge, “I’ve lived in a lot of places.”
Finn eyes me like he wants to press, but instead asks, “If you hadn’t run, what would you be doing now?”
A hard question, and not a comfortable one to answer. “Sometimes I think if I’d stayed much longer, I would have become who they wanted me to be. The lifestyle is very… seductive to young women. I’d likely be married to a man of her choosing. Or maybe gone to law school, if that’s what she wanted for me.” I take a steadying breath. “Or, if I proved myself of no use to the family, I’d be dead for real. Probably of an accidental drug overdose. I lost a second cousin that way shortly after he came out as gay.”
“Jesus,” he hisses.
A sudden thought makes my stomach turn, pulling my gaze to his face. “When you hired those investigators, did you do it directly?”
He scans my wide eyes. “I’m not stupid. I did it through a dummy corporation that can’t be traced back to me.”
My relief mixes with appreciation for his cleverness. “Good. You’re not on their radar, then.”
The eerie sky makes the blue of his eyes so vivid I have to look away. They see too much but understand so little. I’ve given him the merest glimpse into the darkness. Enough, I hope, from deterring a nose-dive into the abyss.
Then he says, “I’m not going to quit.”
I close my eyes, seeking relief from the icy wind, but also to hide my reaction to his words.
“Please,” I murmur. “Don’t do this.”
Until now, I hadn’t realized this wasn’t just about what Molly wanted, but about what I want, as well. I barely know this man, but I don’t want him anywhere near my murderous family. They will end him, quietly and convincingly. A freak accident. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. An event that could never be traced back to the family.
I’ve seen it too many times before.
“I’ve tried, you know,” he says, muted voice almost lost in the wind, “to forgive. Or at least to accept and move on like my mom and sisters have. But there’s something inside me that can’t let go. My father was the same. Mom used to call him Sir Charles as a joke, because he had this inflexible nobility to him. He was the guy who stood up—every time—in defense of the defenseless, with no care for his own safety.”
A dim memory surfaces. “He was a firefighter, right? A chief?”
Finn nods. “He was a good man. The best kind of man, a hero. And look where it got him. So like I said, I’m not going to stop.”
“You’re not like them, Finn. This isn’t what your dad would have wanted.”
The second the words are out, I know I’ve made a mistake.
He stands, facing me with his shoulders bunched and rage pouring out of him. “You don’t know shit about what he would have wanted, Callisto Avellino, and you don’t know shit about me. But I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
I flinch as he leans down, then freeze as his lips graze my forehead.
“I’m no fucking hero, princess, and neither are you.”
9
The second time I scare Callisto makes me feel no better than the first. Worse, even, because when she told me about what happened to her uncle, and I could see the old, familiar grief in her eyes, I was still an asshole to her.
I could blame jet lag, or the less-than-warm receptions from my mom and aunt, but the truth is more basic. And more damning.
I still want to sink my teeth into her skin and rut into her body like a caveman. I have no idea why, but if anything, I want her more now that I know who she is. Like she’s a focal point my body and mind can finally agree on, a merging of my inner life with my physical needs.
I loathe everything she comes from and represents, and her I’m an innocent victim act makes me want to throw something. Because it has to be an act. No way she grew up suckling at the Avellino teat and came out halfway decent. In fact, maybe she’s a Trojan horse. A game piece on the Avellino chess board, sent to monitor my mom and make sure she doesn’t make waves for Vivian’s upcoming campaign.
The thought sends a chill down my spine. If it’s true, then my actions today might have put my mom in danger. For the first time, I’m relieved she told me to kick rocks, because it means there’s nothing for Callisto to report.
If, in fact, she’s a spy.
I’m so tired, facts are starting to bleed into feelings and feelings into facts.
Regardless of whether Callisto was telling me the truth or not, I know my aunt was right to warn me away from this path. Going after the Avellinos is a million shades of Bad Idea. I’m not crazy. I know this could—probably will—end badly. But I’m resigned to the fact there’s nothing anyone can say to stop me. One thing I have in common with my dad, apparently. Stubbornness. Or maybe unfailing dedication to a cause, no matter how unworthy it may be.
Please don’t go to the deposition today. My mother had begged him to leave it alone. To let someone else take the risk. But he still went. Sir Charles, ready and able to fight the good fight, whether or not it put a blazing target on his back.
Sometimes, I hate my father just as much as the Avellinos. Hate him for always doing the right thing. For putting justice above his family. For ignoring all the warnings and the danger when the law demanded his testimony for the crime he’d uncovered.
I always knew this would be my path. While most of my friends are married and starting families, I remain alone.
I won’t do to a family what my dad did to ours.
After leaving Callisto at the cove, I head back to the motel. I need a shower and at least five hours of sleep. Mentally, I’m off the fucking rails.
Hot water on my stiff shoulders goes a long way to making me feel normal again—or at least more like myself. By the time I close the curtains and crawl into bed, I’ve decided t
hat even though I’d love to ride the Callisto as Trojan horse train, I’m being paranoid.
On the off chance Vivian Avellino even remembers my mother, there’s no way she’d orchestrate a long game like faking the death of her stepdaughter to use her as bait in a revenge plot.
Not only is it ridiculous, instinct tells me Callisto’s not that good of an actress. And my gut is rarely wrong.
As a photographer, I’m essentially a highly paid voyeur, and I’ve been doing it a long time. It’s why I’m so successful—reading people comes naturally. Even in the most resistant client, I can dig past the superficial layers and find a spark of honest emotion. Longing. Lust. Hope. Confusion. Anger…
Fear.
Callisto is afraid of her family, that much I know. It’s no surprise her uncle tried to toughen her up by telling her she was too weak. In the world she comes from, goodness is a flower destined to be overcome by weeds, while traits like kindness, charity, compassion are merely tools to advance an agenda.
Vivian Avellino, on the other hand, is a stellar actress, her propaganda flawless. Last year she donated a wing to a children’s hospital and funded the construction of several youth centers in underprivileged communities. Every year, she donates millions to various organizations. A pittance of the family’s actual worth. A payoff to the public so they don’t look harder at the how or why.
I lied to my aunt when she asked what my investigators turned up. The man who died—he found something. Something big enough to prompt his murder. His last voicemail to me was urgent, his voice thick with fear.
We’ve got ’em. Call me back.
I did, but it was too late.
I’ll find out what he discovered no matter the cost. Because as much as the old hate burns unquenched inside me, I’m tired, too. Tired of living with this darkness. Of pretending everything’s fine. Of photoshoots, screwing strangers, and partying as I travel the world like I don’t have a care.
If I have to be like the Avellinos in order to destroy them, that’s a price I’ll pay.
The Golden Hour Page 4
