by Ciana Stone
“I heard.”
“You heard?”
“Deacon came back mad as a hornet over finding some man leaving your house this morning. Some man half his age.”
“He did?”
“Girl, he was so jealous he couldn’t see straight.”
“He was?” That news had a fresh flood of tears starting up and she knelt down right there in the doorway and covered her face with her hands.
“Mica, girl, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?” Etta hurried to Mica and knelt down beside her.
“Life. Life is wrong,” Mica said between sobs.
“What do you mean?” Etta could feel fear and anger rolling off Mica in waves. She didn’t understand why, but she knew it was real. “Talk to me, Mica.”
Mica moved her hands from her face. “Only if you let me pay you. As a therapist. If I do, then you can’t tell anyone what I tell you, right?”
That question gave Etta a jolt of concern. “That’s correct, but as a friend I’d never betray−”
“I know you wouldn’t, but I need more than a friend’s promise. I need you to be legally bound to keep what I say in confidence.”
“Then let’s go into my office and I’ll bill you for whatever time we spend.”
Mica nodded and accompanied Etta to her office. Etta took a seat in her customary chair by the window and gestured to the chair across from her. “Please, sit.”
Mica did and after a moment, she wiped her hands over her face and blew out a breath. “Okay. The man Deacon saw was Ranger Zeb Childress. The Marshals Services asked him to check in on me.”
“The Marshals Services? Wait. Are you in WITSEC?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But…isn’t your real name Mica Gray Horse? I thought you had to change your name when you went into WITSEC?”
“You do, but no one is looking for Mica Gray Horse. They’re looking for Cipriana Dumitra Julliani.”
“Do you realize that you spoke with a distinctive European accent?”
“Romanian, yes. I learned to speak it before I was twenty.”
“Okay, I’m totally confused. Are you this Cipriana person?”
“I am.”
Etta nodded. “I think we need to start at the beginning.”
Mica hated going back to the beginning. It meant remembering the pain of her mother abandoning her and Mathias and of her father abandoning them while still living in the house with them.
“When I was five, my mother left…”
*****
Deacon didn’t remember Etta saying anything about having a client, but she wasn’t at home so he walked over to her office and let himself in. The reception area was empty, but that was pretty normal. Etta’s assistant only worked half a day, three days a week and this wasn’t one of the days she typically worked.
His thoughts were on the report that had just arrived on Mica. Anger bubbled, trying to come to a full boil. His hand tightened on the rolled pages. Now it all made sense.
When he reached Etta’s office, he noticed the door was standing ajar. He could hear her voice.
“So you were kind of a what? Sex counselor, Dominatrix, what?”
“A little of both, I guess.”
Deacon felt his entire body tense at the sound of the second voice. Mica. As he stood there in shock, the conversation continued.
“And you did this while you were married?”
“Yes.”
“For money?”
“Not entirely.”
“Then what?”
“Power.”
“What kind of power?”
“The kind that keeping that sort of secret for powerful people brings.”
“But they paid you?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
Something came over Deacon that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. A complete loss of control. He’d always prided himself in his clear head and ability to assess a situation before reacting.
Today was the first time that ability failed him. He didn’t make a conscious decision to act, but the next thing he knew he was pushing the door open. “So what you’re saying is that you’re a whore.”
Etta and Mica both looked at him in surprise. Etta’s expression turned quickly to alarm, but Mica’s morphed into something that delivered its own surprise. Rage.
“Don’t you ever call me that.” She stood and faced him, her back ramrod straight and her gaze zeroed in on his. He saw her anger and it fueled his own.
“Then what should I call you? A liar?” He tossed the report at Etta. “I had an investigator look into her and Mathias’ past. She’s been lying to us—about everything. She’s been living in LA since she was 16, in a dump owned by a mobster and she works for a dry cleaner he also owns that’s reputed to be a drop for drugs.
“And apparently she’s been earning her real money spreading her legs for whoever has the cash.”
“Deacon, you shouldn’t be here.” Etta said.
“No? Why? Don’t you want the truth?” He looked at Mica. “Go ahead, say it. You’re a whore. Now I understand what was going on at your house with the cowboy.”
He thought she’d back down. He cowed grown men with his rage. But she didn’t even flinch. Instead, Mica marched up to him, stopping only inches away. He was a good bit taller, which made her have to tilt her chin up to look him square in the eyes, but she didn’t hesitate.
“Fuck you, Deacon.”
With that, she brushed past him. He could hear the sound of her footsteps and then the slam of the door.
He looked at Etta and she had mad stamped all over her face.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Yes.”
“You did hear her, didn’t you? She’s nothing but a common whore.”
“There’s nothing common about her, Deacon, and I thought you were smart enough to know that.”
Before his temper could get away from him, he turned and walked out.
*****
The moment Mica left, Etta unlocked her desk drawer and took out her laptop. She accessed the report she’d received and continued reading. There was information about Mathias and Mica’s parents, about the mother leaving and the father’s alcoholism.
The report indicated that Mica ran away from home at the age of sixteen, went to Los Angeles and moved in a rundown section of the city in a small studio apartment until recently when she and her brother moved to Cotton Creek.
That jibed with what Mica told her, but Etta was looking for more, something to substantiate what Mica had told her about Tony Julliani. She ran a search on his name and was shocked by the results. There were fifteen pages of links.
What Etta read was enough to prove that Mica hadn’t lied. Tony, or Anthony Julliani was the youngest son of Victor Julliani, one of the most notorious mob bosses in the country. He owned several casinos in Vegas, Atlantic City, had city contracts for garbage and construction in a dozen major cities, and his father was reputed to be the man responsible for ordering the deaths of more than a dozen people.
Etta cruised through pages of photos and was scrolling down the page when suddenly a face jumped out at her. She backed up and clicked on a photo.
“Holy shit.” It was Mica. Dressed in gold lame, and wearing a lot of diamond jewelry, she stood between Victor and Tony Julliani on her wedding day to Tony. There were more photos of Mica with Tony at events, Mica with celebrities and politicians, and then news articles about the murders of Tony and his wife, along with other members of his family and “gang.”
“Holy shit.” Etta bookmarked each of the pages of interest and hit the print button. She next ran a search on Mica Gray Horse. The search netted nothing.
That was a relief. At least with no photos online under the name Mica Gray Horse, no one could match her up with her alias Cipriana. Etta logged off, locked the laptop away, and stuck the printed
pages into the top drawer of her desk. She needed to go for a run and clear her head, think about what Mica had told her, and decide what to do about Deacon.
She didn’t believe for a moment that Mica was a bad person or bad for Deacon, but if she was a target, then didn’t Etta owe it to Deacon and everyone here at Sanctuary to warn them of potential danger?
But what about her friendship with Mica? Deacon had behaved badly and she didn’t think it was fair to Mica. And then there was her professional obligation of confidentiality to Mica? It was a conundrum and one she didn’t know how to solve. But she needed to figure it out and fast.
Chapter Thirteen
Etta yelled for Deacon to enter when he tapped on the screen door. She was in the kitchen and pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and fixed them both a glass. “Have a seat,” she said over her shoulder.
The pages from his report were on the table. She carried the tea and offered a glass to Deacon, then took a seat. He looked at the pages, but didn’t touch them.
“Why did you do that?”
He looked at it and then her. “Does it matter?”
“Do you have any idea what a mess you’ve made? Someone had been asking questions and alerted the Marshals, which had prompted them to contact Ranger Childress and have him visit Mica.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why?”
“Because—because you shouldn’t. Shit.” She rose and paced beside the table, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.” She had to figure this out.
“What the hell are you going on about?”
Etta picked up the pages and flipped through them. She’d already read every page and knew what she was looking for. When she hit page four, she found it.
She looked at Deacon. “It says the building she lived in and the place she worked are both owned by the Julliani family, reported to be part of the Mafia.”
“And that no one can ever remember seeing her at the cleaners where she supposedly worked or that shit-hole apartment,” he pointed out.
Etta nodded. “I think you should get on the computer and run a search on the Julliani family.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Where’s your laptop or tablet?”
Etta went over to the counter by the door, unplugged her iPad from the charger, and handed it to Deacon. He accepted and started typing, two-finger style.
“They are definitely Mafia, if these news stories are true,” he said. “The old man is at war with a rival family after the death of his son Tony and Tony’s wife, some Romanian woman.”
“Are there photos?”
Deacon cut her a look, then poked on the tablet some more. She saw his expression change and felt his surprise.
“This is her.” He turned the tablet to face her. “Mica. It’s her or her twin.” He continued to scroll, scanning the images Etta had seen earlier. “This is definitely her.”
“But it can’t be her, can it? The woman in those photos was killed.”
Deacon suddenly stood. “I have to go.”
“Where?” Etta asked and followed as he headed for the door.
He didn’t bother to answer, but she knew. He was going to Mica’s. The shit was about to hit the fan and she didn’t know who was more at fault, her or Deacon, but one thing was for sure, Mica was going to feel betrayed by people who supposedly cared about her.
And Etta didn’t blame her one bit.
*****
Mica was emotionally wrung out after telling Etta about her life, but still tense and wound up, like she was waiting for something horrible to happen. She needed something to get rid of energy.
She knew of one way to wear herself out and quickly changed into old jeans that slunk low on her hips, a sports bra, and old work boots. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and headed for the blacksmith shop.
Mathias had left a text for her that he was going over to the Weathers’ ranch and wouldn’t be back until later. She started the forge and found her steel. After putting her earbuds in, Mica started her playlist on her phone and put the phone on the workbench where it would be safe from flying sparks.
She then put on the heavy apron and gloves and watched the metal heat. Before long it was ready and she went to work. The hammer was heavy and each blow sent sparks splintering off the metal, separating as they flew so that one spark became two.
Mica hammered and heated and hammered more. She was one of about twenty non-Japanese people in the world capable of creating a sword in the ancient Japanese tradition, but it was a painstaking and slow process. Swordsmithing was not something many people were interested in, and she didn’t do it as much as she once did, but today she was grateful to be able to be standing there drawing out the sword.
At first, her thoughts were on what had happened at Etta’s, the truths she revealed to Etta, Deacon showing up, and the anger between them. Then came thoughts of Deacon driving off when he saw Ranger Childress came to mind.
It was all a big mess and she needed to clear her mind of all of it. Before long, she did; the exertion and heat and focus wiped her mind clean. There was only the fire, the metal and her own strength, pounding the white-hot steel.
*****
Deacon saw her the moment he walked up. Both of the big metal doors were open and even with airflow, the heat from the forge was intense. Mica’s back was bare aside from a racerback sports bra and jeans that rode low on her hips. Sweat poured in rivulets down her back, darkening the top of her jeans. Her arms were slick and her hair clung to her skin.
Even through his anger, he acknowledged her magnificence. Her back and arms were elegant in their definition and evident strength. She wielded the obviously heavy hammer with skill. He watched until she set the hammer aside and put the long piece of metal into the forge.
“Mica.”
She didn’t turn, and he realized she must have earphones in because she was swaying to a beat he couldn’t hear.
“Mica!” His shout had her jerking around. She pulled earbuds from her ears and crammed them in her back pockets.
“You lied to me.” His long stride ate up the distance between them.
*****
Mica’s first reaction was to be intimidated. He was scowling and towering over her almost menacingly. It was enough to scare anyone. But that reaction was quickly replaced by another. Anger.
“I most certainly have not.”
“Oh? Then what’s your husband’s name?”
Her heart sank a bit, but she refused to back down. “I don’t have a husband.”
“Don’t lie.”
He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
It was clear from his reaction that he not only heard the change in her voice but sensed something as well. “You’re married,” he said in an accusing tone.
“No, I’m not.”
“I saw you. Pictures of you with your husband, Anthony.”
“You mean my dead husband?”
A flash of surprise crossed his face, but was overcome by anger. “So you admit it. You’re really this Cipriana person.”
“No, I’m really Mica Gray Horse. I just pretended to be Cipriana.”
“Why?”
“To protect Matty.”
That seemed to take some of the steam out of his engine. “What?”
Mica turned and pulled the metal from the forge. “This is hot.” She placed it on the anvil and picked up the hammer. “Who told you?” She swung the hammer and after its impact sent sparks showering, she added, “Etta?”
“No.”
“Then how did you find out?”
“I had someone look into your background.”
Suddenly it made sense. She hadn’t been able to figure out why the Marshals Service would have been alerted or why someone would be snooping into her past. Now she got it and it made her mad.
Regardless that she’d lose the prog
ress she’d made with the metal, she put down the hammer and pulled off her gloves.
“And just what gave you that right?” She put her gloves on the anvil and removed the apron.
“I have the right—”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Mica was getting angrier by the moment. “Damn you!” She turned and marched out of the back door, slammed her hands on her hips, and tried to calm down.
It was all ruined. Damn it all, it was ruined. She wanted to cry. She thought she’d finally found the one thing she’d wanted her entire life. A place to call home and a man she was crazy in love with. But no. Deacon’s inquiry had screwed that all to hell.
“Mica.”
At the sound of his voice, she started running. She didn’t know where she was going, but she had to get away from him. At that moment all she could think was she wished she had one place on the earth where she felt safe and loved.
Ten minutes later, she found herself on Nellie Mae’s front porch, crying and panting from the run. She pounded on the door and a few seconds later Nellie Mae opened the door.
“Oh, dear lord, child what’s happened?” Nellie Mae took Mica’s hand. “Come in, come in.”
“It’s all ruined.” Mica sobbed and collapsed onto the rug in the living room. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, put her forehead on her knees and sobbed.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Nellie Mae dragged her little ottoman over to sit on and took Mica’s arm. “Come on, honey, you just put your head in my lap and have a good cry.”
That bit of kindness unhinged Mica. She cried a river, sitting there on the floor with her head in Nellie Mae’s lap, with Nellie Mae stroking her hair and crooning words of comfort.
It was the closest she’d ever come to having the feel of a mother’s love, of someone who cared for her feelings, and she cried for never having had that, for a childhood that was stolen by her parents’ inability to care for her and Mathias, and for a life where everything good she’d ever experienced had been tainted with hate and blood.
Mica didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly she was jerking awake. The room was dark. She sat up and took Nellie Mae’s hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
