by K. J. Dahlen
Wait—would have?
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” my father says, but he speaks so quietly I wonder if he meant to say it out loud. “Gio, some new information has come to my attention.”
“What kind of information?” There’s no fucking way I’d let him down, but I have more on my plate than this assignment. My extra class. My shifts at the bank. But the look on his face.…
I hear the front door swing open and the voices of my aunts fill the hallway on the other side of the office door. My father makes no move to greet them. Instead, he takes his seat at his desk, the expression on his face deadly serious. “Sit down, Gio. There are things you need to know.”
2
Sia
“Europe can go fuck itself.”
Portia, my best friend on the planet and the only person who never laughs at me for living at my uncle’s house when I should be living in the dorms, laughs in the face of my rage. “Europe is amazing,” she says. “I’ve already signed up for study abroad junior year. Paris. How can you be so mad about being so close to Paris?”
How can I, indeed?
Because I have plans. I have a life ahead of me here. I have three weeks left in the summer before sophomore year starts up at Northwestern. Portia and I fully intended to rush one of the sororities on campus. Not for the friends—those women can be total bitches. But the shirts they get are worth their weight in free drinks at the bars. Or so I’ve heard.
I pace around my room at my uncle’s and keep my voice low. “This isn’t what I want.”
Portia sighs, like she’s being forced to slow down for my simple mind. “Then don’t go.” She says it easily, simply. Portia parties hard, but when it comes to dispensing advice, she’s ridiculously wise. I think she knows more than she lets on sometimes.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You do.” There’s a clatter in the background that makes me think she’s doing her makeup. “Tell your uncle you’re moving out. We’ll get a place together. There are plenty of shitty student houses around campus. So you’ll have to give up your pretty princess lifestyle, but it would be workable. And fun as hell.”
I snort. “Pretty princess lifestyle?” My uncle’s house is nice, but I wouldn’t call it a luxury dwelling.
“Relatively speaking,” Portia says, and she’s probably right. I’ve seen some of the houses close to the campus park where I like to eat lunch between classes.
“Fine.” I hesitate. “I don’t know. Could we really do that?” Even in the haze of my anger, I’m not sure I could go through with actually telling him, actually packing, actually leaving.
He’s the only family I have left, and he’s taken care of me every day of my life since my mother died. A stand-up guy in every way. Something nags at the corner of my mind—a sound? But I’m too pissed to dwell on it. The recent paranoid streak is a bit much, that’s true, but he’s been as loving of a father figure as I could have asked for. “I don’t know,” I say again.
“Handle this like an adult,” Portia says, her voice ringing with authority. “Go talk to him. Don’t get emotional. Lay out why you don’t want to go. Hell, if you want, you can pitch living with me. I mean it. We could do it.”
“But what about—”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Sia,” Portia laughs again, kindness in her voice. “I know how to pay bills. I know how to keep us safe.”
“Keep us safe?”
“Yeah. If you’re worried about, I don’t know, security.” She giggles. “I’m serious. I’m have a wealth of knowledge. Living on our own will be a piece of cake.”
I believe her.
“You’re a good friend,” I tell her, the anger softening into a resolve that’s less heated and more determined.
“Hurry up,” she says, her voice muffled. “I want to go dancing afterward.”
“Love you. Bye.”
Call disconnected, I square my shoulders and march back out into the living room. My uncle is sitting at one of the high stools at the kitchen counter, flipping through one of his laminated reports from work.
“I’ve come to discuss Europe with you,” I tell him before I can change my mind.
His eyes are the same as my mother’s, only his expression is steely. “Sia, there’s no room for debate.”
My cool collectedness melts under the heat of the injustice. “This is ridiculous,” I tell him, my voice going high, hands balling into fists at my sides. “You can’t make this kind of decision for me. Leaving in two days?” All the plans I’ve made are being crushed under the bulldozer of his supposed rule over me. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here, and go to college with my friends.”
“It’s a world-class university,” he says, as if that’s the only thing that matters. “It’s far better for you, in the long run, to be overseas.”
“That makes zero sense.”
“Sia.” There’s a come on hidden in his tone. “You’ve always known that this was a possibility.”
I roll my eyes and hate myself for doing it. “Why? Because of all those bullshit stories about my parents? For God’s sake. When are you going to let that go? They’re dead.”
He flicks his gaze to the floor. I’ve hurt him, mentioning my mom like this, but I don’t care. She was paranoid, too, but nothing has ever happened to make me think she was right. And I doubt anything will.
“Yes,” my uncle says evenly. “They’re dead, and I’ve been made your guardian until you’re twenty-one. You have to know, Sia—” There’s a hint of a pleading look in his eyes. “This is about your safety. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
It breaks me, if only a little. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.” I mean for the words to be sharp, cutting, but they come out reassuring instead. “Nothing ever has, and nothing’s going to happen because I stay to attend college here.”
“You’re not going to do that.”
“Fine,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady and under control. “I’ll leave. If that’s what you want—”
“I never said that.”
“—Portia and I are going to get a house.”
“How will you pay the rent?”
“I have a job at the student café, and I can ask for more shifts—”
“While keeping your grades at an acceptable level?” I know what he’s talking about. My uncle is footing the bill for my college education, but only for so long as I maintain a 3.5 average or better. It makes me furious how unfailingly generous he is.
My chin quivers. “I hate it when you’re right.” He is, naturally. I can’t take any more shifts without cutting into my study time, but I can’t afford the rent on a place like that without more shifts.
But what I can’t do, above all, is get on a plane to the U.K. in two days.
He sighs. “I don’t take any pleasure in it, Sia.”
“Good.” I want to say more. I want to rip into him, to argue, to wear him down, but I’m too old for that kind of shit. “That’s fine.” I turn on my heel. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”
“Sia—”
I’m halfway up the stairs to my room when I hear him say the words, almost to himself. “I’m only trying to protect you.”
3
Gio
Alessia Ricci lives in a modest one-story ranch at the end of a street riddled with one-story ranches.
It’s not what I expected.
In my mind, the Riccis are notorious villains. They’re the kind of people who’d inhabit decrepit mansions, everything calculated to keep people away. They’d have to be, if they wanted to survive.
I shift in the front seat of my car. No idea why I had that impression. They obviously didn’t have a super-secure mansion, because every one of them is dead.
All except Alessia.
She lives with an uncle. That’s what my father said, his lip curling dismissively. “The uncle isn’t a Ricci. The both of them, that’d b
e too suspicious. Keep it to the girl.”
Keep it to the girl.
Simple. Direct.
There’s even a timeline. She’s leaving the country in a matter of days. There’s no time to waste, no time to lose, which is why I’m sitting by the curb in my car, waiting for her to come home.
I’d rather be doing anything else with my Friday night—the first Friday I’m old enough to go to the decent bars with my friend—but a vicious pride swells in my chest when I think of how fucking pleased my father will be. When Alessia is dead, our family will be the most powerful family in all of Chicago. No—we already are the most powerful family in Chicago. This isn’t about defeating a rival, it’s about enacting revenge.
It’s well-deserved revenge, too. I don’t remember my mother. All I know of her are the stories my father tells. He talks about her quietly, in a voice that’s different from his own. At Christmas, he goes to midnight mass and comes home smelling like incense, her name on his tongue like a holy wafer. Alessia’s family took that from us.
An eye for an eye.
I can’t fuck this up.
The uncle drove away a couple of hours ago, then came back. One by one, all the lights in the house went off.
The longer I sit, the more time I have to go over the details of this plan.
It should be simple.
Grab her.
Cover her mouth.
Haul her outside.
I’ll need to go somewhere secluded—there’s a garage overlooking an empty lot that should be fine.
Shoot her with the gun that’s in the glovebox.
Shoot her outside like that?
I run my hands over the steering wheel. It’s probably not the best idea, in a quiet neighborhood like this. Too many people would come running at the sound of the gunshot. My father will laugh when I tell him about all this debate. He put the decision entirely in my hands. I’m going to pass this test, damn it, and I’m going to do it with flying colors.
I twist in the seat, scanning for any sign of headlights. There are none. The street is lined with streetlights, the whole lot of them casting a yellow glow in pools at their own feet. I count to ten and wait for movement.
Nothing. I pop the glove compartment and slip the gun into a holster at my waist.
Then I get out of the car.
Best to look like I belong here. I walk slowly, and halfway to the house I toss my head back in silent laughter. From a distance, it’ll look like I have one of those Bluetooth pieces. Close to the front of the house, I take a sharp right, ducking down behind some manicured shrubbery, and stealthily make my way around to the shadowed side.
I saw where the uncle went. This place can’t have more than a few bedrooms, so I pick the first window. It’s not very high off the ground, and the white curtains inside are gapped enough to see inside.
Found it.
This is a girl’s room if I’ve ever seen one. The light coming through the window is dim enough that it’s leached all the color from the walls, but I bet in broad daylight this room is painted some stupidly sunny yellow or, God forbid, pink. The bedspread is a light color—white?—and it’s one of those woven numbers that matches the throw pillows. One of the throw pillows is in the center of the floor. The bed is hidden by a deeper shadow, but she’s there. I can see her outline.
I hold my breath and pop the screen out, setting it carefully against the side of the house. At some point, I’ll replace it.
The window isn’t locked.
Jesus, this is too easy.
I push it up with both hands, a few inches, and listen.
There’s no noise from inside, not even a rustle.
I push it up another few inches.
Still nothing.
I shove it up the rest of the way. Girl sleeps like the dead. Maybe this will be even easier than I thought.
Another pause. There’s no reason to rush, no reason to fuck this up because I let adrenaline get the best of me. I wait until my heart rate slows. I listen to everything. Even the suburbs are full of sound. Crickets singing their nighttime song. The distant rush of trucks on the freeway. Two houses over, someone’s television is fucking blaring, the assholes.
There is no noise coming from inside the house. Not so much as a creak from a floorboard.
With one motion, I lift myself up and through the window, holding at the peak. It’s silent, so I drop in, my pants brushing against the corner of her desk.
My blood sings with the proximity of this moment.
This is the last calm before the rest of my life.
After this, I won’t be little Gio. Not anymore. I’ll be a full-fledged member of the family my father—and his father, and his father before that—fought to keep alive. Fought to keep in power. Someday, my son will do the same.
Alessia Ricci doesn’t know it yet, but she’s my key to that future. She doesn’t know anything, because she’s peacefully asleep in her bed, silent under those woven covers, the sheets, wrapped around her body, innocent in her dreams, at least—
—wait.
Fuck.
I approach the side of the bed, my footfalls heavy on the carpet, my pulse pounding in my ears.
A shadow.
That’s all it was.
Her bed is empty.
Alessia Ricci isn’t in the fucking bed. She’s not in the room. She’s probably not in the house.
The gun presses heavily against my side, and I force myself into a semblance of calm.
She’s not here, but I am.
If I have to wait here for days, so be it. A flash of irritation clouds my vision and then it disappears.
The clock is ticking for Alessia Ricci.
4
Sia
Alcohol is the answer to life’s problems.
At least, it was the answer to life’s problems tonight. Portia sneaked a flask into the bar with her and we closed ourselves in one of the bathroom stalls. It was gone in minutes. You know what’s better than dancing? Dancing with a buzz.
Okay, it was more than a buzz. I was drunk. I’m still drunk. But the heat of the alcohol melted away the tension in my gut and made me forget that my uncle is being a stubborn asshole. Why is it such a big deal to protect me by sending me to Europe? Tons of bad shit can happen in Europe, too. It’s not some magical bubble-wrapped place where I’ll never get so much as a paper cut.
Portia throws her arms around my neck when the Uber pulls up to the curb in front of my uncle’s house. “I love you, girl.” Her voice is sloppy against my neck, but still genuine. “Fight the good fight. When you get up in the morning take a Tylenol and try again. I swear to God, I’ll get us an apartment this weekend. No problem. So easy.”
“I will.” My heart stirs at the thought of standing up to my uncle and striking out on my own. Protect me? I’m nineteen years old. I don’t need any man’s protection. I’m totally fucking fine. “I’ll do it. Look for a place. I’ll move in with you.” My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. It’s going to be so nice to go to sleep, but my veins buzz with the possibilities. If Portia got a place by campus, we could go to all kinds of parties. I’d never have to worry about being too far from class. I’d never have to worry about someone watching me, always watching and worrying. I’d be free. Plus, Portia notices everything. She’d see trouble coming a mile away.
God, they’re all so paranoid. I can still picture my mother’s eyes, two days before she died, gripping my hand so tightly her knuckles were white. “Sia Andrews,” she repeated. “You go by that name. Promise me. Promise me.”
I’m not interested in grief crashing my high, so I shove the memory back. She was scared for no reason. She’s been dead for ten years and nothing has happened.
I get out of the car into the warm spring air, blow Portia a kiss, and head for the door.
The house is dark and silent. My uncle is asleep, and even though I’m pissed at him, I’m not a bitch. I open the door and tiptoe inside, locking it behind me.
; Home.
For another couple of days, anyway. It’s been a good place to grow up, but Jesus, it’s starting to suffocate me. I’m not a princess. I’m not so precious that I need to be locked away in a tower, hidden from the world, until I’m an old woman. Still, I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of turning my back on my uncle. There’s got to be a better way to do this.
I’ll figure it out in the morning. Or the day after that. I’ve got time, unless Uncle David is going to drag me kicking and screaming through the airport and onto the plane himself. Not that I’d make a scene like that. I wouldn’t kick. I wouldn’t scream. But I would dig my heels into the carpet and make every step agony.
I laugh softly at the thought, and kick off my heels. Making a big scene is not the Andrews way. It’s not what my mother preferred, either, but she never went without a fight. There are ways.
The door to my bedroom swings open under my touch and my shoulders relax. I’ve always loved this bedroom. After my mother took us into hiding, we lived in shady-ass rental homes all around Chicago, never staying for longer than six months. Compared to that, Uncle David’s house is paradise. But you know what they say—any paradise can become a prison. I drop my little clutch purse to the floor. It connects with a gentle pfft.
“So dramatic,” I tell myself aloud, stretching my arms over my head.
In the corner, a shadow detaches from the wall.
I drop my arms to my side and freeze, blinking.
Am I fucking seeing things?
No.
I’m drunk, but I’m not so drunk that I don’t recognize the shadow for what it is—a man.
My pulse pounds in my ears, as loud as the echo of the club music. My lungs strain for breath. Holy fuck. An intruder? In my bedroom? As long as I’ve lived here, there’s never been a robbery in the neighborhood. There’s never been a crime at all, unless you count a fight between the Hollister’s that got out of hand three years ago. This place is safe.
