by Ivy Fox
Once I see our gate, it’s like seeing St. Peter’s pearly gates themselves, and I fly like the wind down the dirt path that leads me all the way home. Tonight I was going to fully enjoy being in each of their arms and take advantage of all the love they were willing to show me. I can blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but I know I probably will never get enough of any of my guys. My own Archangels brought down from heaven to worship me in every way they know how.
Sure enough, as soon as I see the house, all three choppers are parked side by side, and my heart starts beating like a drum. I jump out of the truck and almost forget to close the door, turning back to do just that before I race to the front porch in search of the foul-mouthed bikers who are the only ones who can satisfy my every need.
Only when I open the screen door, instead of the sultry or sexy smoldering looks I expect to be greeted with, Cam, Gabriel, and Michael are all seated around the kitchen table, sullen eyes fixed on a manila envelope in the middle, looking at it as if it’s a bomb they need to defuse.
“Hi,” I say, frozen in place, not really sure of what to make out of their dour and unexpected moods.
“Hi, sweetheart. We’ve been expecting you,” Michael says, standing up from his seat, pulling out a chair next to him, offering me to sit down. I follow his lead, but an unnerving feeling starts to crawl its way from my toes all the way up to my spine.
“Have you now?”
“Did you have a good day, sweetheart?” he asks, softly stroking my cheeks, and the tenderness soothes me somewhat. Still, I look over at Gabriel and Cam and see that they are still acting strange. Cam’s eyes look far too shiny, and his whole face seems as if he’s about to murder someone, while Gabriel’s simply look vacant, as if he’s not even in the room with us— his caramel eyes looking dimmed of their natural light.
“Michael, what’s wrong?” I ask, my back stiffening.
“I have some news, Hope. Depending on a variety of things, your perception of them being the most significant of course, this new information that I have come to acquire might not be to your liking.”
“Jesus, Michael, out with it already. Cam looks like he’s about to punch a hole through my new tiled kitchen wall, and Gabriel looks like someone just ran over his dog.”
I see a small smile appear on Cam’s face with my little rant, making those sexy dimples—which I love so much—come out, and Gabriel also seems to pull himself together, shaking himself out of his zombie-like state.
“We’re good, little bird. Don’t worry about us. But you need to listen to Michael. It’s important, okay?” he says, his tone even and trying very hard for it to be comforting. I just wonder who he’s trying to comfort in this scenario.
“Okay.” I lean back in the chair, waiting on Michael, and I establish that he doesn’t look much better either if the dark circles under his eyes are any indications. He looks over at the envelope once more, and as I had suspected, whatever is ailing them, that envelope contains all their pains; like some sort of poison which has been delivered to this home. He picks it up and holds it to his chest as if its contents will shatter what he holds most dear to his heart.
I should have paid more attention to their hints.
Been more mindful of their cues.
If I had, maybe I would have had an inkling as to how my very existence was about to be robbed from me yet again.
Chapter 26
Michael
She’s looking up at me with worried anticipation, and I hate how none of us are able to hide how this conversation is destroying us inside. As soon as Hope left for work this morning, I told my brothers everything I had discovered on my trip to Philadelphia. I knew the bitter pill I was going to be feeding them since I had been living with the same dreadful knowledge myself for the past couple of days. After I told them everything and gave them the proof to back up every word of my findings, we each looked like the Dark Angel had paid us a visit. But it was about to get worse.
So much worse.
Because I had been tasked with sharing the same truth to the woman we love. The woman who, learning said truth, might end up looking at us differently, and the creation of even a flicker of doubt as to how she should continue from this moment on might be enough to demolish what we’ve built so far.
A decision that only she can make.—whether she wants us to continue to live by her side, or prefers going back to the life she left behind.
“Michael,” she presses, putting a hand over mine, scorching me in the process.
“Before I left, I promised you how I would tell you anything if I believe it affects you or us in any way, didn’t I, sweetheart?”
“You did,” she answers, and a little bit of red rises to her cheeks, probably remembering the afternoon of lovemaking in the backyard that occurred prior to making that promise.
“And you also know I’m not a liar, Hope. Don’t like to be in a position where I have to be one, either.”
“I know that, Michael. You’re one of the most honorable men I know,” she replies, and I hear the pride in her voice, strangling my insides even more.
“When I left, I didn’t go on club business, baby. I went away for you.”
“For me?” she asks, surprised, and she turns around, looking at Gabriel and Cam for enlightenment. Gabe stretches his hands over the table and grabs hold of both her hands.
“Little bird, we need you to just listen, okay?” he asks, knowing how hard this is for us to go through. She nods, and I see her biting the inside of her cheek, preventing any other outburst.
“When we went to Florida last month, on our way back, we stumbled upon a clue and possibly learned what had happened to you on that night you showed up at our doorstep,” I start.
“How did you…” she interrupts.
“Hope, love, please shut that gorgeous mouth of yours and let Michael get on with it,” Cam grunts out, exasperated and still very much on edge. She gives him her most annoyed stare but doesn’t say anything further.
I open up the envelope, and like wielding my beloved dagger, I commence cutting away at myself and my brothers to finally offer her the truth she deserves to learn about herself.
“You were born Jennifer Russo. Born on Valentine’s Day twenty-three years ago, to a single mother who worked two low-paid jobs to keep a roof over your heads.”
I first place on the table the Polaroid picture of her as a baby, cradled by a woman who is the spitting older image of her, looking down at her precious girl with nothing but love and devotion in her tired expression. This was at the beginning of her life when it still held a glimpse of hope.
“She’s wearing my bracelet,” Hope hushes out, picking up the photo and inspecting every detail. With her finger, she traces over her own wrist, where the same delicate piece of jewelry is currently placed.
“Your mother’s name was Valerie Russo. She never listed who your father was, though, so I can’t give you his name, sweetheart, but I know she had you when she was much older than you are now—forty, to be precise.”
“She looks exhausted but happy at the same time,” she whispers, tracing her finger over the beaming woman while placing her own hand on her baby bump.
“She had you, little bird, of course she was happy,” Gabriel proclaims, our own truth embedded in his comforting words. Hope gives him a small, shy grin, and then raises her head to me, with a newfound eagerness.
“Where is she?” she asks, her eyes shining with emotion.
Jesus, this is killing me.
“She’s gone, baby. She had a stroke one night when you were five years old, and she didn’t make it. By the time social services found you, alone in your one-bedroom apartment, she had been gone for a full week. Neighbors complained about the smell, and that’s how they found you.”
“Oh,” she hushes, and there is so much disappointment, longing, and sadness in that one syllable, that I give her a minute before proceeding with the next batch of hurt. She wipes her unshed tears away before the
y even dare to leak. Never the one to feel comfortable with her tears, even when the circumstances call for it. Gabriel gives me a nod to continue, and although a part of me wishes I could give her more time to process all this new information, I know what lays ahead will be equally as devastating.
“You were taken into foster care, but never adopted. Probably due to the fact you experienced such a traumatic event at such a young age, you had become withdrawn early on. All the social workers and even your foster parents had the same feedback to give. You never tried to interact with kids your age, and when possible adoption candidates came forward, you preferred to play in a corner by yourself and pretend you weren’t in the room. It made the adoption process more difficult as it seemed you didn’t care one way or the other.”
“Hmm,” she says, as I set down a photograph of the foster home with all the kids outside posing for the photo. Sure enough, on the first row is a little brown-haired ten-year-old looking away from the camera, to the side, as if she doesn’t belong and therefore doesn’t understand why she needs to be there in the first place. But then my adrenaline, rage, or maybe even my own jealousy starts to kick in when I see her trace a boy’s face on the second row, who is looking at her with a broad smile on his face.
“Do you remember him, Hope?” I ask, trying to mask the myriad of troubling emotions bubbling inside of me.
“Oh… no. Should I?” she asks, shoving the photo away from her on the table.
“But why did you pick him from all the rest?” I quip, informing her that I saw her touch the fifteen-year-old face just then, but she just shrugs her shoulders, and something tells me she really doesn’t know why her subconscious called out to her just now.
“His name is Nico Saccone. Growing up in foster care, you made very few friends, but the only one who seemed to stick was Nico.”
“Nico?” she says as if she’s playing with the name on her tongue to see if it’s at all familiar to her. Yet, the name sprouting from her lips makes my fevered state increase tenfold. I try to maintain my voice in its same comforting state not to alarm her, but from the rage I see in Cam’s eyes and Gabe’s fisted hands, I might be the only one accomplishing such a feat.
“Yes. It seems you and him took a shining to each other, and he took you under his wing, so to speak. Kept you close, protected you at school from bullies and the sort, and did all he could to keep you safe and whole.”
“So we were friends?” she asks, genuinely interested in the boy.
“From what I gathered, you two considered each other family.”
“I see,” she replies, but she doesn’t ask for his whereabouts, probably dreading that I will give her the same bad news I gave her when she asked about her mother.
“Both of you made for an unlikely pair, though. You kept your nose clean in school, even if your head was down, and Nico did the opposite. He fell in with the wrong crowd at a young age, even spent some time in juvie, too. Although he never got you involved in his dealings, he did bring all sorts of not-so-pleasant characters around you,” I say, dreading my next photo.
I put it on the table and turn it over. In the picture, there are four guys in their twenties, with an eighteen-year-old Hope in the middle, between Nico and the man I have come to hate even without meeting him personally.
“These are his friends. My friends?” she queries, picking up the photo in both hands and scrutinizing each detail.
“Yes, you can say that. On the far left is Anthony Sabelli, on the far right Lucas Palamazio, Nico to your right, and that’s Benjamin Zappa, next to you, on your left.”
“We look like we came from some sort of game or something,” she says, looking at the jerseys on each man and the obvious dirt and sweat on their clothes.
“Looks like,” I say, not knowing what else I could say to describe what looks like a fun day out in a park, playing ball with her friends, her supposed brother, and unbeknownst to her, her boyfriend at the time.
“Do you recognize any of the faces in that photo, sweetheart?”
“No. Should I? I mean, I recognize Nico from the photo of him when he was younger, but nothing rings a bell. Why?”
“Because this man here,” I say, pointing out the brown-haired, unassuming twenty-something-year-old man, “is a very important person in your life.” She scrunches up her brows and takes another look at the man, but I see no recognition whatsoever.
“Just tell her, brother. It’s time,” Gabe says, his tone rasped with emotion from witnessing Hope’s voyage throughout this afternoon’s retelling of her life’s path.
“This man right here, Hope, is your husband.”
“What?” she yelps, her eyes bugging out of her skull like I’d just told her the most obscure thing.
“No, no it’s not.” She shakes her head, laughing nervously.
“Yes, sweetheart, unfortunately, he is,” I state and throw one more picture to the table, this one of her in her wedding dress with Ben at her side, looking very much the blissfully wedded new couple.
Hope lets out a gasp, standing up from her seat, letting the chair fall behind her as her shaking hands cover her mouth.
“No.” She begins to cry, shaking her head madly, tears suddenly no longer a concern to be concealed, falling freely down her cheeks. “I am not married—me? No!”
“Yes,” I say, trying to get close to her, to comfort her and take away this shock, this pain she’s feeling.
“No, I am not, Michael!” she howls at me.
“Yes, baby. You are. Do you think I take any joy in saying such a thing? To see you hurt this way?”
“That’s not possible,” she continues to mumble and shake, and I feel Cam and Gabriel stand up from their seats too, dying to reach her, but her arms are stretched out in front of her, stating for us not to even think to get any closer.
“What happened to me, Michael? Tell me all about it. No more pictures! Just tell me what you think happened to me.”
This is not how I wanted to tell her, I wanted to go slow and build up to that night, but the scary look in her expression is screaming out at me to just be done with it. To not prolong this any longer than needed.
“Ben is a police detective and was working undercover, trying to build a case against the Palamazio mafia family. I’m not sure if, at the time, you were aware he was a cop, but I suspect you were his ‘in’ to get close to Nico and his buddies, and most importantly, to Lucas Palamazio, nephew to the head of the organization. It’s still unclear what transpired, but the suspicion is that Ben’s cover was blown somehow, and the three men kidnapped you to keep him quiet. Their own way of sending a message to him that he was out of his depth and to keep his mouth shut about all he might have known. I think they were the ones who tried to kill you that night and buried you in the woods.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Weren’t they supposed to be my friends? Didn’t you say that Nico used to protect me as a kid, that I considered him to be my brother?”
“Evil men do evil deeds, even to the ones they think they love, little bird,” Gabriel says, his tone filled with misery.
“No. This is too much. No.”
“I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, but you needed to know the truth. In case… well, in case you wanted to go back. Back to your husband.”
“Michael, I swear to God, you say that one more time, and I will use the dagger you gave me and slice you open. I am NOT married!” she yells, going so red in the face that I almost believe she would shank me.
I put my hands up and walk to her so she can see I’m not a threat, but this denial she’s under won’t do us any good.
“Hope, I went to your town. I looked into your past and investigated everything I could with a fine-toothed comb. You are in fact very much married, sweetheart. To him.” I point out the picture of the man who could take Hope away from us.
“You’re not listening to me, Michael. I am not married,” she wails again, grinding her teeth. “I get this mafia-related bul
lshit. I understand now how I was left in some ditch in the middle of nowhere to die. To prevent this man, whoever he is, from testifying and putting these criminals behind bars. But I need you to hear me when I tell you that I am one hundred percent certain I am not married. Jennifer, or whatever she’s called, might have been. Me? I belong to no one!” she yells, her eyes containing such fiery rage, I take a step back, from both of the wounds she’s inflicting, her distant stance and scathing words.
She gives us all one more irate glare and storms out of the kitchen, slamming her bedroom door hard enough to almost break its hinges. Cam starts to follow her, but I grab his elbow for him to sit his ass down. She needs time to think since she isn’t thinking clearly. She’s right; this was just too much. Too much for her and too much for us.
We need time to process.
All of us.
“Sit down Cam,” I order, and take a seat of my own. He sits beside me, angry that I won’t let him run to her, but he stays just the same.
“She needs us,” he chokes.
“She needs space more than she needs us right now.”
“I don’t like this, Michael. We should have gradually told her the truth. This rip-the-band-aid bullshit is just going to blow up in our faces.”
“Maybe, but it’s done now,” I groan, feeling exhausted and defeated in the same breath.
“So what now? What do we do?” Gabriel asks, his stare fixed on me, waiting for my lead on how to move forward from this mess we’re in.
“Now, we wait.”
He gives me one of his understanding nods, and Cam turns around to get something from one of the bottom cupboards.
“And get shitfaced,” he says, slamming the whiskey bottle in the center of the table with the photographs that just broke my woman’s whole world into smithereens.
“And get shitfaced.”
