by Monica James
I whistle and my stomach growls the moment we step into the gourmet kitchen. The breakfast area is set in a sunny alcove and includes double glass doors which open to the green grounds. Granite counters and plenty of work and storage space make me think of our old kitchen. My mom loves to cook, and she made the most of the tiny, outdated space we had, but this room is her palace and tears sting my eyes.
She deserves this. They both do.
I follow in silence, afraid I’ll burst into tears if I speak, because a wave of nostalgia rolls over me. Although I knew this place was beautiful, actually stepping inside has me appreciating just how far we’ve come. When I was a teenager, I could only dream of living in a house like this, not that I wanted to. But now, my parents are where they deserve to be.
We walk the grand staircase and I marvel at the stained glass steps. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I comment, the back of each riser set with a small pane of glass. The huge bay windows along the far wall spurt streams of sunrays, lighting up the staircase like a literal stairway to heaven.
The upper level has five heavy wooden doorways leading off the long carpeted hallway. Abstract pieces of art, courtesy of my mom, no doubt, adorn the pristine white walls. “This is your room,” Mom says, opening the last door on the left.
She smiles as I step past her in awe. The monster bed draped in gold and black linens has me wondering if that mattress feels as soft as it looks. I toss my handbag onto it and watch as it sinks into the cushy bliss.
The eggshell white bedroom includes a sitting area, a vast walk-in closet, and a marble en suite featuring a claw tub. The plush carpet feels like clouds beneath my heels as I peek my head around the doorjamb. A double sink vanity and frameless glass shower finish off the sleek, modern design.
“Do you like it?” Mom asks from behind me.
With eyes still glued to that tub, I nod slowly. “Like it? It makes my apartment look like a sardine can. It’s beautiful.” Turning around to face her, I gently caress her shoulder. “You’re finally home.”
“It doesn’t matter where we live; wherever you and your father are will always be my home.” And this is one of the many reasons why I love this woman to death. “Let me look at you,” she says, changing the subject, placing me out at arm’s length.
Her hazel eyes begin at my head and work their way down. My long brown hair is twisted into an elaborate chignon, just how I usually wear it. My makeup is light, but that’s no different to when I was young. I barely wear any eyeshadow, opting for a dark mascara and kohl to emphasize my green eyes instead. My foundation is only a light dusting to cover my freckles and sunspots, thanks to growing up under the California sun. My lips are always covered with a bold lipstick or gloss, but on weekends, my trusty ChapStick is my go-to essential.
She takes in my white pantsuit, which has a sweeping V-neck and sleeveless top leading into flowy pants with pockets. I’ve tied the sash around my waist into a low bow, giving the outfit a more casual feel.
She smiles when she sees the black heels. “I never thought I’d see the day my little girl wore high heels.” It warms my heart that she still refers to me this way. “Wow, you look so…different. So grown up.”
After I left for Florida, my relationship with my parents was strained. It took months, but they finally wrapped their heads around what I did. But still, our relationship was never the same, which made moving to New York all the more easier. It’s taken years for us to get back to the way things were, but I can still see the disappointment in my mother’s eyes when she lets her guard down. She will never understand why I slept with the enemy, and neither can I.
Shaking my head and pushing down feelings which have been long buried, I smile. “I can’t exactly show up to work in sweats now, can I?”
She presses her linked hands over her chest in pride. “We’re so proud of you, Holland. You’re changing the world…but we always knew you would.”
There’s nothing like hearing those words from someone whose opinion you value most in this world.
“Thanks, Mom.”
The sparkle from my diamond catches the sun, scattering tiny rainbows all over the room. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Show me.” I have no idea what she’s talking about until she points to my left hand.
“It’s going to take some getting used to,” I confess, showing her my ring.
She examines it, nodding her approval as she takes my hand. “And you’re happy?”
It’s the first time she’s asked me, and I can’t help but wonder why. “Yes. Very. I love Lincoln. He’s a good man.” I have no idea why I suddenly feel the need to defend his honor to my mom. She knows what kind of a man he is.
“Yes, he is. Maybe you’ll stop working so hard and give me some grandbabies.” She accents her suggestion with a wink. I can’t help but laugh.
“Yes, maybe.” That even sounded unconvincing to my ears.
Lincoln and I are on two totally different planets when it comes to kids. I want them and he, he seems to want to avoid the topic like the plague. Whenever I’ve brought the subject up in the past, he’s used our careers as an excuse not to try. Yes, my job is important to me, but so is having a family to share that success with. However, it’s one fight I’m bound to lose, which is a first for me, and I don’t like it; I don’t like it one bit.
“Are you looking after yourself? You look so skinny. Are you eating? Proper food, I mean. Not these vegan, werewolf diet things I read about online.”
I purse my lips from side to side, biting back my smile. “Yes, I promise I’m eating my meat and three vegetables.”
She waves off my cheek playfully. “Good. We worry about you. That Rossi case was all over the internet. You helped NYPD put away a very dangerous man. Fancy him using his thirteen-year-old daughter to sell drugs…” Her voice blends into the background because suddenly, my ears are filled with nothing but white noise.
Alberto Rossi was New York’s most notorious mafia boss, and I helped put him away for a very long time. For years, he ran the streets of New York, dealing drugs and instilling the fear of god in anyone who crossed his path.
His band of lowlife thugs terrorized, blackmailed, and killed for over a decade. New Yorkers didn’t feel safe because of Alberto and his crew, but thanks to a yearlong operation, NYPD finally brought Alberto down.
He did the most despicable thing a parent could do to their child—he used his daughter as a pawn, not caring that having a thirteen-year-old running the streets, peddling his drugs, meant she was put in harm’s way time and time again.
NYPD got wind of his dealings, and a sting operation was organized. Theresa was responsible for a shipment of heroin worth a cool thirty-seven mil. Alberto wasn’t even man enough to oversee the deal, knowing if it went belly up, they’d kill her and not connect the dots because she was his illegitimate love child. He had a cover for everything, and even though everyone knew ninety-eight percent of New York’s drugs were supplied by Alberto Rossi, no one was game enough to take him on.
However, the police were two steps ahead and arrested Alberto at his holiday home in Aspen, armed with all the evidence they needed. Theresa’s mom was some poor woman Alberto promised the world to, but in reality, all he wanted was to build a small army with Rossi blood. Natalie tried for years to get her daughter back, but no one would touch her—no one but me.
When my firm got wind of the high-profile case, I offered to represent Natalie pro bono. Not only did I want to put this scumbag away for life and throw away the key, but I also wanted Theresa reunited with her mom, who she hadn’t seen for years.
When I first met both, they were such scared little mice, afraid of the big bad wolf that had allies everywhere. They were put into protective care, but the pressure got to Theresa and she eventually refused to testify against her dad.
I worked for months with her, gaining her trust, and finally, after nine months, we were ready to go to trial.
After a grueling ten weeks, the jury ca
me back with a guilty verdict. I had helped put away New York’s most dangerous criminal, and in turn, in the mafia’s eyes, I became public enemy number one.
The win was what prompted me to become partner and earned me the respect and notoriety among my peers. It was a media frenzy, offers from all different news sources begging for the inside scoop, but I wasn’t interested in any of it.
At the end of the day, I was just doing my job. I reunited a mother and daughter and helped clean up the streets of a city I’d grown to love. But sadly, not everyone was happy with my patriotism because six months ago, the game changed and the hunter became the hunted.
“Holland, are you all right? You’re as white as a ghost.” I’m not even aware of my trip down memory lane until I feel my mother’s warm palm press to my brow.
“I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. I might go lie down for a bit.”
She doesn’t look convinced, her pink lips pulling into a thin line. “I’ll make you some tea.”
There’s no point arguing. “Thanks, tea sounds good.”
Her concern for me is visible. It must be mother’s intuition because I think I’ve mastered the perfect poker face, but she doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll be back soon.” She leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, her homely scent of citrus and wildflowers embracing me tightly. When she closes the door behind her, I take a moment to steady my breathing.
Slumping onto the end of the mattress, I cradle my head in my palms. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about it, but Alberto Rossi is never far from my mind. Sighing, I reach for my bag and unzip the zipper, a complete glutton for punishment.
What’s inside is what you’d expect to find in most female’s handbags—wallet, keys, phone, but I put money on the fact that I’m the only one who carries around this yellow envelope like some sick serial killer needing to keep his trophies close to relive his crimes.
My manicured fingers tremble as I slip my nail under the seal to open the door to my nightmares. The moment the small pieces of paper see the light of day, I’m transported back in time to when I received my first one.
I’d just come back from my daily run around Central Park. How I loved the summertime in New York. The air pulsated with energy and radiated with endless possibilities. It made you appreciate being alive.
I waved hello to Gary, the front desk manager, while collecting my mail. That day was no different than any other, but when I unfolded that crisp white piece of paper, everything changed and has never been the same since.
You’re a whore…and you’re going to pay.
I had to read it twice, disbelieving that the words I’d just read were actually written in red ink before me. But they were. No matter how much I wanted them to go away, I knew this was only the beginning.
The notes arrived sporadically, the sender, of course, unknown. Sometimes it was radio silence for days, sometimes even weeks, but whenever I thought they’d stopped, I’d receive another with a message even crueler than the one before. It was always written in the same handwriting. Always in that deep red ink.
The theme was pretty much the same. The words “whore” and “pay” were repeat offenders, and when I’d finally had enough and went to the police, they confirmed what I feared to be true. The letters were most likely coming from Rossi headquarters as payback for what I did to their boss.
I played it off, but the police told me not to be careless and that from now, I was to watch my back. And watch my back I did. I felt like a prisoner once again, constantly looking over my shoulder and wondering when the next assault was to come.
Now, I’m escaping New York to be held in yet another prison. I don’t know what’s worse—the danger that lurks out there, or the danger that festers within.
“You brought them?” Snapping my head up guiltily, I bite my lip, completely busted.
The strain has not only impacted me, but Lincoln as well. He has been short, snappy, and impatient—traits which I never knew existed in him until six months ago. Our lives have become even more stressful, and because of this, our relationship has suffered. This is one of the reasons I agreed to marry him with such haste. I know marriage is not a Band-Aid, but I’ll try anything to go back to the way things were. Am I ready? I suppose we’ll soon find out.
Quickly stuffing the note inside the envelope, I shove it into my bag. “Of course, I did. They’re evidence, Lincoln. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a lawyer; collecting evidence is kind of what I do.” I hide behind my humor, not wanting to worry him further.
“Ha, very funny,” he says, stepping into the room. He takes a moment to look around, clearly impressed. I exhale, thankful he’s happy to let the matter rest.
His cell is curled into his palm, so I ask, “Who’d you call?” He cocks a brow, and I point at his hand.
“Oh.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “A couple of old friends wanted to see if I was free for a beer.”
“Who?” I question, crossing my legs and leaning back on my hands.
Lincoln runs a hand through his short hair, giving away his sins. “Just Chook and Boof. Remember them?”
My lip curls involuntarily. “Yes, sadly I do. Jesus, good news travels fast in this place.” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my tone.
“Want to come?”
I scoff, sitting up and shaking my head with conviction. “No thanks. I wasn’t even nice to them when I was supposed to be, so I have a feeling things may get a little uncomfortable if I tag along.”
He laughs, accustomed to my honesty. “Okay, fair enough. I won’t be long.”
I watch as he unzips his suitcase and changes into a Yankees t-shirt. He is so handsome. I can’t help but crawl toward him on my hands and knees. Gripping the collar of his shirt, I draw him down inches from my lips. “Are you sure you have to go out? There is a claw tub.” I open my mouth in excitement, before singsonging brashly, “You could wash my back.”
I want this staleness between us to clear. It’s been lingering over our heads for months, and I thought coming here would help clear the air. But he still seems detached, distracted.
He places his hands over mine and squeezes lightly. “I sort of promised I’d go. Maybe later?”
“You certainly know how to make a girl feel loved.” I let him go and fall onto the mattress with a huff. I’m pretty sure I just heard our sex life fizzle out for good. I’ve never been good at this flirting thing, and it’s times such as these that I don’t know why I bother.
“I’ll be two hours tops. Unless…” His pause has me rising and leaning up on an elbow.
“Unless what?”
He points at my handbag. “Unless you want me to stay.”
His chivalrous offer has me rolling my eyes because I don’t want him to know just how freaked out I truly am about my Dear John or, in my case, Dear Whore letters. “Please. Have you seen this place? It’s like a fortress. I’ll just take a bath and relax.”
“Okay, babe.” He bends down and gives my lips a peck. I’m saddened it didn’t take much convincing. “And besides, I’m pretty sure you’re safe with all those self-defense classes you’ve been taking.”
He’s right, but his aloofness to this situation does piss me off. Even in New York, he was so certain nothing was going to happen, assuring me that it’ll be all right. I don’t know if he’s living in denial, or if he doesn’t realize the seriousness of having a Rossi target on our backs.
However, I don’t want to nag, so I nod with a staged smile. “Have fun. Say hi to all your ex-girlfriends.”
He freezes, obviously not seeing the funny side to my comment. “See you soon. Love you.”
“I love you too,” I reply, giving him a small wave.
He’s out the door, a skip to his step. It appears Lincoln has missed LA more than he let on. I, on the other hand, am thinking of all the activities I can plan indoors, because I don’t intend on leaving the grounds for the next three weeks.
With that thought in mind,
I spring off the bed and hunt through my suitcase for my toiletries and my tattered copy of Emma by Jane Austen. Kicking off my shoes, I peer over at my handbag, which sits innocently on the bed. R&R starts in three, two, one, so I reach for it and stow it away in the bedside dresser drawer.
L.A. has already given me a headache, and the scary thing is…I know there is so much more to come.
“If I eat one more bite—” I place my hands on my bloated belly and slouch in my chair “—you’ll be rolling me down the aisle.” My parents laugh lightly, but I’m only half joking.
After soaking in the tub until my fingers resembled tiny prunes, I decided to dress and explore the grounds. My mom finally got her rose garden because she now lives on approximately five hundred square feet of perfectly manicured grounds complete with rose and vegetable gardens, and of course the picturesque Beverly Hills palm trees.
The in-ground pool isn’t too shabby, either.
I was ready to put in my dinner request because I had a hankering for my mom’s enchiladas, but she surprised me when she revealed she’d made dinner reservations at some gourmet burger place on Sunset Boulevard. I couldn’t refuse, seeing as that part of L.A. was one of my favorites, and a burger sounded too good to pass up.
I tried calling Lincoln, but it went to voicemail, so it looked like it was just us three.
Sitting in the back of my parents’ Mercedes and taking in the sights which were my backdrop for so long was a little disconcerting. No matter that years had passed since I’d been here; it still felt like yesterday.
Buildings have been erected where others were torn down, making room for the latest high-rise or five-star hotel. That’s one of the many things I loved about New York. With no room to build out, they build up, adding to the existing architecture while keeping the historical feel. It’s a concrete jungle, and it’s easy to lose oneself in the madness.
“Speaking of aisles…have you decided on a dress yet?”
The thought of discussing this with my mom and dad suddenly has me reaching for a ketchup-covered French fry.
