Cynthia may never know why she had to go through something so heinous, but she knows that her daughter will always be loved. She knows that a miracle arose from the ashes.
We adopted Cynthia’s daughter two months ago.
“I love you, Layla Mia.” Nicholas leans in and nuzzles the tip of his nose against hers. “I’m going to be the bestest big brother.”
My vision blurs, and I swipe a tear away with my thumb. “Yes, you are, bud.”
Glancing down at Nicholas and Layla, I know in my heart that this was always supposed to be the way my life ended up. Maybe I didn’t see it when Callie Kingston—now Callie Luciano—mistook me for the landscaper, but I see it so clearly now.
After Nicholas finishes feeding Layla, Callie takes her to the bedroom to burp her and get her ready for bed.
Nicholas latches onto my hand when I stand, and I lead him to his bedroom.
“Daddy, can you sing that lion song to me tonight?” He jumps on top of his Spiderman comforter and scoots underneath the sheets. “The one you sing to Layla?”
“Of course.” I lower myself onto the edge of his bed. “You like that song?”
He nods emphatically. “I want to learn the words so I can sing it to Layla.”
My heart squeezes. “I think she’d love that.”
I sing the first few lines, and Nicholas repeats after me. We practice them until he has them down, and then I tell him we’ll learn the next verse tomorrow night. He pouts, of course.
So, I end up teaching him half the song.
The kid’s a little con artist. He knows how to crumble my resolve.
After he falls asleep, I tiptoe into the hallway and gently close his door. My next stop is Layla’s room. She’s sound asleep in her milk coma, so I kiss my fingertips and touch them to her head.
When I step into our bedroom, she’s sitting up against the cream-colored quilted headboard, eyes closed and mouth open.
I let out a soft chuckle, and click off the lamp on her nightstand. Her eyes flutter open as I press a kiss to her forehead.
“Are they asleep?” she mumbles.
“For now.”
I climb in beside her, and curl around her body, inhaling her sweet floral scent.
A small moan vibrates in her throat, and she reaches back to run her fingers through my hair. “We should have sex now before one of them wakes up.”
I chuckle. “You’re exhausted, angel. Sleep.”
She mutters something incomprehensible that sounds like a protest, but her arm drops back onto the mattress, and she’s out cold.
I lie awake for a short while, listening to the sound of her steady breaths.
Fear still grips me in the middle of the night. I’ll wake up in a cold sweat once in a while, and rush from room to room, checking on my kids. Therapy has helped, but I don’t think anything can take away the worry of a parent—especially one who’s suffered the loss of a child.
Callie understands. She’s patient with me, and validates my neuroses. I don’t think I could love her more for all the ways she’s helped me. She came into my life when I was at my lowest, drowning in the depths of despair, and somehow, she brought me to higher ground.
My angel.
For a long time, I wasn’t sure what was left of me after everything I’d endured.
Now, I am filled with an endless amount of love.
Now, I am complete.
When you’re sure you’ve lost everything, there’s one thing that always remains deep down inside yourself.
Hope.
THE END
Thank you for reading What’s Left of Me.
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Inevitable
KRISTEN GRANATA
1
Graham
No.
Two letters. One syllable. Such a simple word.
It’s one of the first words we learn as babies. How easily it flies from our mouths, without even a second thought. We say it because we mean it, we feel it. We don’t know enough about the pain it can cause, the guilt that follows, the magnitude of what it symbolizes.
Our parents become angry when we say it. It’s a demonstration of defiance, us against them. They have the power, and we’re standing up to them, threatening to take that power.
But they always win.
And at that age, parents should win. Otherwise, most of us would’ve been dead from sticking our fingers in sockets, or crawling into the pools in our backyards. Our parents set rules and boundaries to keep us safe. And we trust them. So, we listen. We obey.
People often say family is everything. They’re not wrong. Our parents make us into who we are. They sew together the fabric of our lives, weaving our realities, carefully stitching our mindsets. What we think, what we know, what we do and say, all stems from our families.
But there are parents who abuse that power they wield.
Their warped version of love forces us to do things, awful things, while binding you in guilt. Because they know we’re loyal. Because they know how desperate we are to make them proud. Because they know we’ll do anything for them.
They prey on it.
On us.
And we let them.
Family is everything. But I don’t say that with the same warm and fuzzy sentiment you think of when you see that phrase on a Hallmark card.
Family can destroy your life.
Just ask Romeo and Juliet.
The Montagues and the Capulets led their children to their deaths. A fight amongst adults was responsible for terrible tragedy. I can’t even remember what the hell they were fighting about, but we all remember the result. Shakespeare wrote about dozens of twisted families because he knew.
He knew how a dysfunctional family can play a direct part in one’s demise.
My life could’ve been a lot different than it is. I had the talent, the drive, the opportunities. But family got in the way. I lost everything I’d worked for. Or as Dad would say, I threw it all away.
Now, at twenty-four with no college education, I’m stuck working for my father’s private investigation company. I’m the best P.I. he’s got, which means about as much as being the best fry cook at McDonald’s. Sure, I bring in the most money. But after Dad takes his cut, and I give a chunk of it to my sister, I’m not left with much. Had I not given up on my dream, I could’ve provided for my family. Could’ve given them anything they needed.
And Dad reminds me of it every chance he gets.
I despise my father. He’s a narcissistic asshole. If he dropped dead today, the only thing I’d feel is relief. I don’t stick by his side because I want to. It’s guilt that keeps me where I am, and Dad yanks me around by it like a leash.
>
“What do you say, son?” My father clasps his hands and rests them on his stomach as he leans back in his worn leather chair. There isn’t an ounce of fear or worry in his cold eyes.
He knows he has me by the balls.
“Why do you even bother asking?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Do you get off on it, pretending like I have a choice?”
His green eyes narrow, the corners of his thin lips tipping upward. “You always have a choice, son. You know that. If you don’t want to do it, just say the word. Of course, you’ll have to explain that to your sister come payday.”
I rise from my chair in front of his desk. “When do I start?”
His mouth spreads into a full-blown evil grin. “Tonight.” He slides a manila envelope across his desk toward me. “Everything you need to know is in this file.”
I reach out to take the envelope, but his hand clamps over mine, his smile gone. Soulless sapphire eyes glare up at me. “Don’t fuck this up, son. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.”
I lean forward, pressing my knuckles onto his desk, and bring my face down to his. Disgust pulses through my veins, but I stamp down the urge to ram his teeth down his throat. “I won’t fuck this up. You’ll get your money.”
“This is about more than money. I’m going to take back what’s mine. I’m going to take his empire and build my own, right on top of his grave.”
I shudder at how psychotic he sounds. I suppose years of obsessing over something will do that to a man.
Without another word, I take the envelope from him and stalk out of his office, making sure to slam the door closed behind me.
He hates it when I do that.
I walk back to my apartment, hoping the crisp autumn air will soothe the years of pent-up frustration and resentment boiling inside my gut.
I used to love living in Brooklyn. It’s like living in Manhattan without the expensive price tag. Then Dad moved his office less than a mile away, because God forbid I have anything that’s truly mine.
When I arrive home, I swipe the bottle of Jack Daniels from my kitchen counter before collapsing onto the couch, and flip open the file in my lap.
The headshot captures my attention in an instant, a photo paper-clipped to the inside cover.
Long, raven-colored hair frames her perfect heart-shaped face. With porcelain skin and plump pink lips, she’s a natural beauty. She’s covered up in a cap and gown, the picture taken from her high school graduation last year. To the untrained eye, she looks like any other pretty face.
But I’ve been trained to look deeper.
Her dark eyes stare up at me, and I spot a playfulness in them. Coupled with the way her lips are curved into a smirk, it’s almost as if she’s daring you to do something. There’s an edge to her, trouble brewing just beneath the surface. And the longer I stare at her picture, the more I want to know.
Evangeline Montalbano.
Pretty name. Nineteen years-old. Born and raised in Manhattan, a New York native like me. I peruse the rest of the information in her file and then I groan. She’s involved in multiple charities, and spends her free time shopping and partying with her elite friends.
I tip the bottle back, letting the whiskey slide down my throat. Rich bitches like Evangeline are all the same. They use charity work to hide the fact that they’re stuck-up and self-absorbed. Can’t blame them, I suppose. They’ve had everything handed to them. This Park Avenue princess wouldn’t know a hard-days’ work if it bit her on her undoubtedly perfect Pilates-formed ass. Her greatest hardship in life was probably a hangnail.
But this job isn’t about her.
Evangeline’s daddy owns a multi-million-dollar corporation. Anthony Montalbano is one of the richest men in the city. He also used to be my father’s best friend.
According to Dad, Anthony unexpectedly pulled his money out of the business they’d started after college, and ran off with Dad’s girlfriend. It was a lifetime ago, but you’d better believe my father held onto it. He holds a grudge like a Pitbull in a tug-of-war match.
All Dad talks about is how he was betrayed, how it should’ve been him with the million-dollar company instead of bill collectors and a dead wife.
To him, this isn’t just a job. It’s personal.
This is revenge.
My instructions in Dad’s plan are clear: Pose as Evangeline’s bodyguard. Tail her, night and day, and infiltrate her home. Collect any and all information about Anthony Montalbano and his company. Dig up dirt, uncover skeletons in the closet. Anything my father can use for blackmail.
Sounds simple enough. But I’m left with one question as I dial my father’s number and press my phone to my ear.
“Graham,” he answers. “I take it you’ve looked over the girl’s file.”
“How are we going to convince her father to hire me as her bodyguard?”
My father snickers, and a chill runs through me. “Oh, we’re going to be very convincing.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I sigh, pulling the wool ski mask down over my face. This is a new low for me.
“You ready?” Tommy asks.
“As if I have a choice.”
Tommy’s gloved-hand pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, G-man. Clemmons and I will do all the work. You’re just along for the ride.”
“Why, exactly? Why does my father want me here?”
He shrugs and tugs his mask into place. “I don’t get paid enough to ask questions.”
And he’s not smart enough to ask the right ones.
Dad pays these guys to do his dirty work. His lackeys. All brawn and no brains.
Clemmons glares at me in the rearview mirror. “Just don’t speak. The girl can’t recognize your voice. Your father will have our asses if we fuck this up.”
I’m well-aware. “Let’s just get this over with.”
As if on cue, the glass door swings open and Evangeline Montalbano steps out of the bar. I do a double-take as she pulls a set of keys from her back pocket and struts over to the red and black Kawasaki motorcycle parked in front of our van.
Yes, we’re in a blacked-out pedophile van with ski masks on.
Not the point.
Evangeline tugs a helmet on over her hair, which is streaked with deep red highlights unlike the picture I saw. A cropped black tank top fits snugly around her chest, revealing her tiny midsection and gleaming belly ring. What surprises me most is the tattoo on her left arm: A warrior woman’s face, marked with war paint under her eyes, inside the head of a lion. She swings a leg over the bike, her ripped jeans tucked inside black combat boots, and leans over to grip the handles, giving us a glorious view of her plump, round ass.
“Wow,” I say on an exhale.
There’s that edge I caught in her headshot.
Tommy chuckles from the passenger seat. “Fucking hot, right?”
Hot isn’t the word. It’s too generic. Evangeline is stunning. Gorgeous. She’s a gravitational force pulling me in. And she looks nothing like a Park Avenue princess.
More like Biker Barbie.
“Here we go, boys.” Clemmons turns the key in the ignition and waits a few seconds before pulling out behind Evangeline’s motorcycle. He stays behind her for several minutes, following her every turn. She weaves in and out of traffic, changing lanes without signaling, making it difficult for us to keep up.
Then she makes an abrupt swerve down a side street.
“Where’s she going?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Fuck if I know,” Tommy says.
Clemmons shrugs. “Let’s see where this princess is headed.”
We come to a construction site and hit a dead end blocked off with orange cones. Evangeline skids to a stop, props her bike up, rips her helmet off, and stomps toward the bumper of our van.
“I know you’re following me!” she yells.
Shit.
Clemmons and Tommy fling their doors open, and Evangeline’s eyes go wide as realization sets in:
Two men in ski masks are charging toward her in a deserted alley.
Tommy gets to her first and grips her bicep, dragging her toward the van. To my surprise, Evangeline yanks her arm back and kicks Tommy in his kneecap. Clemmons runs up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the pavement. Tommy lunges forward to grab her ankles, but she kicks him in the face. Then she rams her head back into Clemmons’ nose.
This isn’t good.
Tommy spits a mouthful of blood over his shoulder and swings his fist.
“No!” I shout, as he punches Evangeline in her face.
Her head hangs forward and her body goes limp.
Fuck.
Tommy and Clemmons shuffle toward the back of the van, my cue to open the doors. When I do, they toss Evangeline’s lifeless body in beside me.
Clemmons zip-ties her ankles together, and then her wrists.
“Maybe I’ll take this pretty little Power Ranger for my own ride when she wakes up.” Tommy’s hand slides up her leg.
I twist his hand backward before he can go any further. “Touch her again and you’ll lose your hand.”
The sick bastard laughs and closes the doors.
My stomach twists when I see the purple, swollen lump already forming on Evangeline’s cheek.
Tommy hoists himself into the passenger seat. “That bitch can fight.”
“Yeah, well, that bitch almost took you out,” Clemmons says.
“Fuck you. We got her, didn’t we?”
The two continue to bicker, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Evangeline’s face. I brush her hair back, staring down at her bruise. “We need to get her some ice.”
“Shut the fuck up, man!” Clemmons yells.
“Screw my father’s orders. She needs ice!”
“Yeah, hold on. Let me take this van with a kidnapped girl through the McDonald’s drive-thru and ask for a cup of ice.” Clemmons shakes his head, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.
What's Left of Me Page 26
