ROM
The summer I turned eighteen, a few months before I was supposed to be made, my mother came up with a plan for how to compromise the new police chief.
She called me into her study the morning of a party she was hosting at the penthouse.
It was early, and I’d barely woken up, but the penthouse was already buzzing with activity. Decorators and caterers were coming in and out every five minutes, their voices carrying through the hallways. I locked my bedroom door before I went to talk to her. I didn’t want someone snooping through my shit.
Cos and Alessio had both moved out, and I was counting down the days until I could do the same. It wasn’t that living with my parents was horrible—I barely saw either of them—but moving out meant something. A rite of passage. That, along with getting made, would mean I was officially a man.
Mom stood by the window, looking out at Central Park, a serene smile curving her lips.
When she turned to face me, the smile slowly melted away.
“Caterina told Aunt Paolina you kissed one of her friends at the barbecue last week.”
Heat blasted across my cheeks. Fucking Cat. The next time she called me for a ride home from one of her Brooklyn raves, I’d tell her to hitchhike.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, feeling like a total tool. Why the fuck would I be in trouble for kissing a girl? I was eighteen. By the time Cosimo was my age, he’d already lost his virginity. And Les—he didn’t talk about that kind of thing, but I had a hunch he’d done it with one of the cleaning girls before he moved out.
I could have done it by now too, if I’d wanted to. But I hadn’t.
Because deep down, I had this stupid idea that I’d wait. That I’d save it for someone who actually mattered.
Of course, I’d rather take a kick to the balls than ever admit that to anyone. It made me sound like a pussy.
Mom shook her head, her tone eerily calm. “You’re not in trouble. But tonight, I need you to kiss someone else.”
I frowned. “What?”
She moved to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a photograph. She slid it across the polished wood toward me.
I hesitated before picking it up, unease sliding down my back. The woman in the picture was old enough to be one of Mom’s friends, maybe even older. Her heavily made-up face did nothing to soften the deep lines across her forehead, and her too-bright smile reminded me of the overeager chaperones at school dances.
“You want me to kiss her?” I asked, incredulous.
Mom nodded. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s the police chief’s wife,” Mom explained, crossing her arms. “Alana taught at a high school until a few years ago, then she was quietly let go. Rumor has it she was involved with a student.” A pause. “Of course, there’s no evidence of that. Or if there was, it’s been buried.”
I stared at her, waiting for the punch line that never came. She was serious.
“If she likes younger men, Romolo,” Mom added, “she’ll like you.”
A cold, slimy feeling settled in my stomach. “You’re joking.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re very handsome. You know that, don’t you?”
Yeah, I knew that. Girls at school had always said yes when I asked them out. I never struggled for attention. But right now, I wished I could disappear. Fade into the background. Become invisible.
“She’ll be at the party tonight,” Mom said matter-of-factly. “Her other weakness—besides younger men—is her love of climbing the social ladder. I met her a few months ago, and we’ve become…fast friends.”
I blinked. “Doesn’t she know who you are? I wouldn’t think the police chief would want his wife spending time with our family.”
“I told her it’s all unsubstantiated claims. That people judge based on old history, not the truth. That seemed to resonate with her—for reasons we can probably imagine.”
I looked back down at the photo still clenched in my clammy hands, the edges curling under the pressure of my grip. “And what do you want me to do?”
“When she arrives, I’ll introduce you,” Mom said. “Talk to her. Be charming. Offer to show her the art gallery. And when you’re alone in there, I want you to kiss her.”
“What if she doesn’t want me to?” A million tiny worms crawled under my skin.
Mom took the photo from me and slid it back into the drawer. “She will.”
The party started at seven, and by eight, the penthouse was packed with guests. Overlapping voices, laughter, and the clinking of glasses filtered through the air.
Dad wasn’t around—he had been called away to Italy on business—and my brothers were nowhere to be found either. I hovered near the bar nursing a beer, too nervous to mingle with anyone. My eyes scanned the room, watching for the woman Mom had shown me earlier.
At around 8:15, she arrived.
“This is my youngest son, Romolo,” Mom said, gently guiding me toward her.
The woman looked a little younger than she had in the photo, though still like someone’s mom—a friend’s mom. Her gaze swept over me, from my head to my shoes, before settling on my face. Her eyes shone with something I couldn’t quite read, and her lips curved into a smile.
“Romolo,” she said, her voice soft. “That’s a beautiful name. So nice to meet you.”
She slid her hand into mine, and her fingers were cool against my palm. If she noticed how clammy it was, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she seemed fascinated by my face, staring at me so intently it was like she was committing me to memory.
Self-consciously, I wiped my free hand over my freshly shaved jaw. I was still unable to grow a decent beard, so I always made sure to get rid of the wispy patches that cropped up every few days.
“Is this your summer between high school and college?” Alana asked.
“Yeah, I just graduated last month,” I said, “but I’m not going to college.”
“Excuse me,” Mom interrupted with a polite smile. “I have to greet a few other guests.”
“Of course.” Alana barely acknowledged Mom’s departure. Her gaze never left mine. “How come?”
I shrugged, shifting my weight. “I think I’ll just help my dad with some of his businesses. He owns a lot of companies, and he likes having family he can trust running them.”
She laughed. “Well, you must be a very smart young man if he trusts you to jump right in. Graduated with good grades?”
I gave a modest nod. “I did all right.”
“I used to be a teacher, you know,” she said, turning her wineglass in her hands. “I taught math and accounting to twelfth graders.”
“You don’t teach anymore?”
Her smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes cooled. “No, I don’t.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes. But I have two kids—thirteen and fifteen. They keep me busy. Soccer practice, tutors, all of that. It’s always a struggle to find time for myself.” She glanced around the room. “Meeting your mother has been wonderful. She’s so kind. She’s introduced me to new people and given me a reason to get out of the house. You’re very lucky to have her.”
The beer bottle was warm in my hand. “Lucky, yeah.”
That was one way to put it.
Mom wasn’t warm, not in the way most people thought of mothers. Her love was sharp-edged, conditional. But she took care of me and my brothers. She had high standards for us. So high they sometimes felt impossible to reach.
Maybe tonight I could show her that I was capable. That I could be the son she needed me to be.
“Would you like to see the art gallery?” I asked.
Alana smiled. “That sounds lovely.”
I left the beer on a table and led her through the crowd. The gallery wasn’t much—just a room at the back of the penthouse with paintings packed onto its walls. A few narrow windows let in slivers of natural light, but the space was mostly shadowed, designed to showcase my parents’ collection.
“They’re big fans of Japanese art,” I explained, walking toward a large canvas of a snowy winter day set against the backdrop of Mount Fuji.
“This is beautiful,” Alana said, her gaze shifting between the paintings and me. She seemed more interested in studying my face than the art on the walls. “And what about you? Do you like it?”
Caught off guard, I ran a hand through my hair. “I think it’s cool, but…it’s not really what I’d put up in my own place, you know?”
She grinned, seemingly charmed, like I’d said something far cleverer than I had. “Are you planning on moving out soon?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just starting to look at apartments. My brothers have already moved out, so I’m the last one left.”
She nodded, stepping closer until we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting. “And did you have a girlfriend at school, Romolo?”
Her voice had changed, turning lower, softer. I noticed the faint flush creeping up her neck, the way her arm brushed against mine—lightly enough that she could pretend it wasn’t deliberate.
Adrenaline flushed through my veins, making me feel a little sick.
“I didn’t,” I said slowly, turning my head to meet her gaze. And then, because I knew what she wanted to hear, I added, “I prefer older women.”
Her lips parted slightly. Her pupils dilated.
The moment hung heavily between us, and I knew what I had to do.
Revulsion clawed at my chest, but I shoved it down.
I leaned in and pressed my lips to hers.
It was brief—two, maybe three seconds. I didn’t use tongue, but she let out a soft gasp. When I pulled back, her eyes were heavy-lidded, her expression slack.
I couldn’t tell if she was pleased or just surprised.
A beat passed. The silence stretched until I couldn’t bear it anymore. What if Mom had been wrong?
Panic flared.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, the words tumbling out of me. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I turned to leave, already trying to figure out how I’d explain this to Mom, but before I could take a step, fingers curled around my wrist.
“Romolo.”
Her voice was thick.
I glanced over my shoulder.
She licked her lips. “You don’t have to apologize.”
And then she closed the distance between us and kissed me again.
I didn’t sleep that night. The party stretched into the early hours, music and conversation bleeding through the walls long after I’d locked myself in my room. When the penthouse finally fell silent, it was past three a.m.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the sick feeling in my gut.
The door creaked open.
I sat up, muscles tensing, but it was just my mom. She stepped inside with something in her hands.
“Romolo?”
“Yeah?” I flipped on the bedside lamp, and its soft glow illuminated her face. She didn’t look angry or pleased—just neutral.
Without a word, she handed me the papers she was holding.
Photos. Of me and Alana in the gallery. Kissing. Every angle captured in stark detail.
I looked back at her, my stomach twisting. “Is this…okay?”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “You did well.”
She turned toward the door but paused at the threshold, glancing over her shoulder. “You’ll see her again next week. She’ll be coming for tea every Wednesday from now on.”
And then she was gone, leaving me alone with the evidence of what I’d done.
Every Wednesday for the rest of the summer, Alana was there at noon.
My mother always ensured we had time alone, excusing herself for at least half an hour each visit. Her reasons grew increasingly flimsy—an urgent phone call, a sudden need to check something in the kitchen, an errand that couldn’t wait. Alana never seemed to question it. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
The dining room where Alana and I met had multiple hidden cameras. At first, she dressed modestly, but as the weeks passed, her outfits became more revealing—plunging necklines, tighter fits, shorter hems. We’d kiss. Sometimes she’d take my hand and place it on her breasts. Other times, she’d touch me over my clothes until my body couldn’t help but react. But she never took it further.
My mother never said it outright, but I knew my job. I had to make Alana believe I wanted this. So I played along, even though my stomach turned every time she touched me.
One afternoon, the housekeeper walked in at the wrong moment. Alana’s hand was resting on my groin.
The look on her face—the way all the color drained from it—stayed with me longer than any of Alana’s touches. Made me feel something close to shame.
That evening, I overheard my mother speaking to the housekeeper in the kitchen, her voice firm and unyielding.
The housekeeper never stepped into the dining room on Wednesdays again.
My sleep started to get all fucked up. Nightmares. Sheets drenched with cold sweat. The nights before Alana’s visits, I rarely managed more than a few hours’ sleep.
I didn’t know how much longer this was supposed to last. No one had given me an end date.
By the end of August, I was still trapped in this nauseating routine when my mother announced she was hosting a big end-of-summer party at the house in the Hamptons.
“I want you to go up a day early,” she said, typing something on her phone, her attention elsewhere. “The caterers arrive in the morning, and I need you to supervise. You’ll get there Friday night. I’ll come up early Saturday afternoon, and the party will be that evening.”
“Okay,” I said, hesitating before adding, “Mom, did you look at the apartments I sent you?”
She finally glanced up, irritation flickering across her face. My living situation was another thing outside my control. I was still in my parents’ penthouse, dependent on their finances until I got made and could earn my own money. The apartment hunt had been her idea, but every time I brought it up, she brushed me off.
“I’ll look after the party, Rom,” she said dismissively, turning back to her phone.
I scratched the back of my head, my frustration mounting. “And this…thing with Alana? How much longer do you think it’ll last?”
Her eyes snapped to mine. For a moment, I braced for a reprimand, but then she smiled—a slow, thin thing that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Make sure you please her this weekend,” she said coolly. “After that, I think we’ll call it a day. I’ve got almost enough on her as it is.”
The air in the room felt suffocating, but I nodded. The end was near.
The soft drizzle outside tapped against the windows as I lounged on the sofa while The Dark Knight played on TV. The glow from the screen flickered across the dim room. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat beside me, untouched for the past half hour.
I wished Cosimo or Alessio had come with me to the Hamptons tonight, but they had other plans. They were always busy with something. Meanwhile, I felt stuck in a purgatory I couldn’t wait to escape.
I didn’t plan to stay up late. My sleep was still fucked up, and I didn’t want to be a groggy mess for tomorrow’s event.
The movie credits began to roll when a knock at the door startled me.
I frowned, pushing off the couch. No one else was supposed to be here tonight.
When I peered through the peephole, I froze.
Alana stood on the other side, her hair damp from the rain, dark spots blooming across her blouse.
I opened the door. She gave me a breathless smile, though she seemed nervous. “Your mom told me you’d be here.”
A cold prickle crawled down my spine.
She did?
Fuck.
I had assumed my mother would want me to kiss Alana again during the party, but now, realization sank in.
That wasn’t the plan.
This—tonight, while we were alone—was the plan.
“Won’t you invite me in?”
I raked a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Sorry. Come in.” I stepped aside, catching the faint scent of alcohol as she brushed past me. Glancing out, I saw her car parked in the driveway, rainwater glistening on its hood. She’d driven here after drinking.
I shut the door and followed her into the living room. “Is everything okay?”
She whirled around too fast, her arms flailing slightly before falling to her sides.
“Yeah,” she said, but it came out brittle. “I just had a fight with my husband. It’s a long story, but I couldn’t stay there anymore.”
“You have a place in the Hamptons?” I asked.
“A friend’s house. The kids and I have been here for the last two weeks. My husband works in the city during the week and only comes down for the weekends, but—” She waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
She sank onto the sofa, her gaze landing on the frozen credits on the TV. I hesitated before sitting beside her, and the cushion dipped under my weight.
“Do you want to watch something?” I asked. How was I supposed to act around her when she was in this kind of a mood?
She shook her head, her eyes distant. I could tell her thoughts were elsewhere, likely consumed by the fight she didn’t want to discuss.
“No, Romolo, I don’t want to watch anything.” Her hand appeared on my thigh. “Being with you makes me feel young again, like I’m just a girl with her whole life ahead of her. You make life…less heavy.”
She slid her fingers upward, and my muscles stiffened. Should I stop her? Let it play out?
Then, before I could decide, she began unbuttoning her blouse.
Frantic. Clumsy. Her fingers ripped through the buttons, and the fabric fell open to reveal the lace underneath.
She climbed onto my lap. “I don’t want to talk anymore tonight,” she whispered, her lips grazing my ear. “I just want to feel something good.”
The faint tang of alcohol clung to her breath, mixing with her perfume. It was sweet but stale, like fruit that had gone bad.
My pulse quickened, not with desire, but with unease. She fumbled with the zipper on my jeans as she lifted her breasts to my face.
I forced myself to respond, dragging my tongue over the lace of her bra. It was mechanical, detached. Her gasps told me she liked it, though my stomach churned with every second that passed. She dug her hands deeper into my jeans, her nails grazing my skin as she wrapped her fingers around my dick.
“I want this,” she murmured.
My eyes shot open, panic flooding my chest. This was more than she’d ever wanted from me before.
And I… I didn’t want this. I didn’t want her. Kissing her had been bad enough, but now…she wanted me to go all the way.
Which meant she’d be my first.
In my desperation, I confessed, ‘I’ve never done this before.’
She froze. For a moment, I thought—hoped—it might make her rethink what she was doing. But when I met her eyes, there was no hesitation there. Only a glint of excitement.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. Leaning in, she pressed her lips just under my ear and whispered, ‘I’ll make it good for you.’
A strange pressure built behind my eyes, like my head was being squeezed in a vise. It felt like I was coming untethered from my body, drifting above the scene instead of living it. Her hands were everywhere, touching me, squeezing me.
And then, inexplicably, I was hard.
I didn’t know how it happened, didn’t want it, but there she was—climbing onto me, lifting her skirt. Nothing underneath. There was a flash of bare skin before she sank onto me. The warmth of her engulfed me, and though it felt oddly comforting, it also felt wrong. So wrong. My mind screamed at me to stop it, but my body didn’t listen. I just sat there, useless, frozen, while she moved against me.
She gripped my shoulders, her nails pressing into me. “Look at me, Romolo,” she said, her voice distorted, like I was underwater, and she was speaking from above.
I blinked at her, my focus slipping in and out. Her face blurred, and the pressure around my head tightened.
Suddenly, she stopped. Her entire body stilled as her gaze darted past me and confusion skated across her face. “What is that?” She pointed at something behind me.
“What?” My voice came out rough. I tried to turn, but her weight pinned me in place. “I can’t see.”
Without warning, she scrambled off me, hurriedly buttoning her blouse. The hunger that had fueled her minutes ago was gone, replaced by something close to panic. “What is that?”
I zipped up my jeans, still sluggish, and followed her stare. A vase of fresh flowers sat on a nearby console table.
I hadn’t noticed the vase when I first came into the house, but now I wondered how I could have missed it. Fresh flowers in a house that wasn’t supposed to be cleaned until tomorrow?
I squinted. Wait. Did it just—
There.
Alana pushed past me and moved toward the vase. With shaking hands, she yanked out a rose where the blinking light was hidden. She plucked the tiny, thumb-sized camera from the petals and stared at it, her face a storm of emotions—shock, betrayal, fury.
My stomach plummeted. Mom had ordered someone to install a camera. Likely, there were many others hidden throughout the house. But this one was defective. It had flashed. A rookie mistake.
Fuck.
She hurled the camera to the ground and stomped on it. Once. Twice. Three times. The crunch of plastic and glass filled the room, but she didn’t stop.
“Alana, that’s enough!”
She whirled to face me, eyes wild. “Tell me what’s going on, Romolo. Now!”
I think she already knew.
Her palm flew to her mouth, muffling a strangled gasp. The puzzle pieces fell into place, each realization sharpening her expression into one of horror. “That camera. There’ve been others, haven’t there?”
I nodded, my throat dry.
“This was planned,” she whispered.
I couldn’t answer.
Alana crumpled to her knees, her body shaking as she clawed at her cheeks. “No. No, no, no. Romolo, please. You can’t do this to me.”
“If your husband plays by our rules,” I forced out, “the pictures and videos will never see the light of day.”
She shook her head, her tears flinging into the air. “You don’t understand! After the last time— He told me he wouldn’t protect me again. If he finds out, I’ll lose everything.”
Mom believed the police chief wouldn’t want these pictures to surface, that he’d cave to our demands to protect himself. But looking at Alana trembling and broken on the floor, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
“If they come out, it won’t just be your reputation that’s damaged,” I said, my voice low. “It’ll hurt his too.”
She wasn’t listening. Her sobs grew louder as they spilled out of her. “This will ruin everything! Romolo, please, I’m begging you. You can’t do this to me.”
“It’s not up to me.” The edge of frustration in my tone masked the guilt twisting in my gut. “This wasn’t my plan.”
She lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes pleading. “There has to be something I can do. Please, anything. I’ll do anything.”
“It’s not me you need to talk to. It’s my mom.”
The way she wept cut deep into my conscience. But I was doing this for the family. Mom and Dad said we all have to make sacrifices for the family. It’s how my brothers and I were raised.
“Look,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “You’ll be able to talk to her tomorrow. Let me take you home. You’ve been drinking. You shouldn’t be driving like this.”
I tried to help her to her feet, but while she’d welcomed my touch earlier, now she tore her hand out of my grip like she’d been burned. I grabbed my keys and a jacket before opening the door. She stumbled out into the rain, which was heavier now, and slid into the passenger seat of my car.
The squeaking of the windshield wipers and her weeping bled into the air. Her head was bowed, her hands trembling in her lap.
Guilt still churned inside me. I knew my family’s world was ruthless, full of difficult choices and cold calculations. But seeing the fallout up close like this? It was different.
Was it supposed to feel this awful?
Or was I just soft?
I tightened my grip on the wheel. Next week, I was expected to prove myself. To put a bullet in a traitor’s skull and solidify my place in the family. That act would set me on the path to being Cosimo’s underboss when he took over as don.
I wasn’t a kid anymore. I had to be willing to do whatever it took.
“Romolo,” she whispered, her voice raw. “My kids need me. Their names are Grant and Tessa. If this comes out, my husband will make sure I never see them again. He has the power to do that, you know. He’s got all the judges wrapped around his little finger.”
My knuckles turned white against the wheel.
“You have to talk to my mother,” I forced out. “There’s nothing I can do to help you right now.”
Her head shook violently, her movements erratic and aggressive. She was falling apart right before my eyes.
I pressed harder on the gas. Anything to make this drive end faster.
Her fingers suddenly dug into my thigh, sharp as claws. “I made a mistake,” she choked out. “A horrible mistake. Haven’t you made mistakes before?”
I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the slick road glowing under the headlights, and stayed silent. Nothing I said would help.
‘Maybe you haven’t,” she continued. ‘Maybe you haven’t because you’re so young. When you’re young, the mistakes you make… They don’t matter. You don’t know any better.’ Her voice cracked. ‘But, Romolo, I’m not eighteen. I’m forty-eight. I won’t get a second chance if my life falls apart.’
She pressed her nails harder into my leg, her other hand grabbing at my arm now.
‘Romolo, do you understand? I won’t have a second chance!’
“Alana, let go of me.” I was trying to keep my eyes on the road, but she was distracting me. Hurting me.
She tightened her grip. ‘Don’t you understand, you stupid boy? God, I wish I’d never met you!”
“Let go!’
Her screams grew louder, and in the chaos, I lost control of the car. The wheel jerked sideways as the tires skidded against the slick pavement.
We were on a bridge. A narrow one crossing one of the lakes.
The rain blurred everything.
The railing shattered.
For a split second, we were weightless.
Then, with a deafening crash, the car plunged into the lake.
Cold water surged in through the cracks around the windows, filling the cabin. Darkness swallowed everything. No headlights. No streetlamps. Just ink-black water, rising fast.
Alana was still screaming, a piercing sound that echoed in the confined space.
“You have to get out!’ I yelled as I fumbled with my seat belt.
“Grant, Tess, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry.”
Fuck. She was in shock. She wasn’t even trying to free herself.
I unbuckled my belt and reached over to help her. “Alana, listen to me. You need to go through the window.”
She looked at me, her eyes wide and terrified, and nodded.
The force of the water rushing in nearly choked me as I rolled down the window on my side. I threw myself through the opening. We were sinking fast.
My foot got caught in the seat belt. For a moment, blind panic took hold. I thought it would drag me down, that I’d drown right there tied to the car. But after a few frantic yanks, I broke free.
The darkness outside the car swallowed me, disorienting me.
My lungs burned as I kicked upward—what I hoped was upward.
Finally, I broke through the surface and gasped for air. I swam to the bank, every muscle in my body screaming, but when I pulled myself onto the shore, a new kind of panic sank its teeth into my chest.
I didn’t hear Alana.
She hadn’t come up.
Did she even try to get out of the car?
“Shit!” I shouted into the night, my voice hoarse. I couldn’t leave her.
I turned and swam back to where the car had gone under. I dived under the dark, frigid water, but it was as black as ink below the surface. I couldn’t see the car. I went under again. And again.
Each time, I came up empty.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. My limbs grew heavy, my lungs burned. It wasn’t until my body gave out—until I physically couldn’t keep going—that I realized…
She was gone.
I dragged myself out of the water with my last bit of strength and collapsed on the bank. My body was shaking, my wet clothes clinging to my skin.
I patted my jacket and felt the solid shape of my phone inside the inner zip pocket. It was waterproof and had done its job. The phone still worked.
Staring at the screen through blurry eyes, I called my mom.
‘Come get me.”
‘Where are you?’
I gave her my location and hung up.
It took her nearly three hours to arrive. When she did, she was flanked by some of my father’s men. By then, the rain had stopped, but the chill hadn’t left me.
She sat beside me and handed me a blanket. I wrapped it around myself, my teeth chattering.
She looked out over the still, dark water. Silent.
‘Is she dead?’ I choked out.
‘I’m sure she is,” she said, sounding utterly calm.
My throat tightened, and then the tears came, hot and uncontrollable. “Mom, how did this get so fucked up?”
She lifted her hand and rested it lightly on my shoulder, but there was no warmth in the gesture. My body turned toward her, aching for something—comfort, solace, anything—but instead of pulling me in, she cleared her throat and stood.
A gaping hole tore open inside me. I couldn’t hold back the sob that ripped through my chest. “Tell me everything will be okay,” I pleaded.
“It’s a shame. We almost had him.”
“Him?”
“Her husband. He would have done whatever we wanted once he saw the pictures and video.” She made a thoughtful sound. “He still might to ensure her memory isn’t tainted by her misdeeds.”
For a moment the pain was too much for me to even breathe. It was everywhere—my lungs, my limbs, even my teeth. Everything hurt.
“Mom,” I gasped, “I need—“
“Next time, try to stick the landing, Rom. You ruined the perfect plan.”
I couldn’t listen to this. I ruined her plan? I ruined a fucking person.
Entrapped her.
Killed her.
I pressed my hands to my ears and rocked forward, but her voice still sliced through.
“On second thought, maybe this was for the best.”
I pressed harder.
She crouched in front of me and yanked one of my hands down. “You left New York a boy,” she said, fingers digging into my chin. “Now you’re a man. Now you understand what it takes to stay on top. To run an empire that destroys its enemies. You don’t flinch. You don’t break. And you. Can’t. Be. Weak.”
Her face was no more than a smudged blur in the dark. “I was concerned whether you’d be able to kill that traitor next week. Worried if you might embarrass me.” She let go of me and straightened out. “Now I know you’ll get it done.”
I curled into myself, forehead pressed to my knees. My jeans were still damp. The fabric smelled musty, earthy, slightly rotten. I breathed through the scent, trying to ground myself, trying to pull myself back from the spinning void that had cracked open inside my skull.
I was breaking. Every emotion clashed at once—hurt, guilt, disbelief—until I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.
My eyes squeezed tighter. Tighter. Just when I feared my mind would burst, all of the pressure suddenly released.
Something let go.
Numbness rushed in like a merciful tide. It dulled everything—my thoughts, my memories, even the shape of Alana’s face in my mind.
A breath escaped.
I felt nothing.
It was easier feeling nothing.
My mother cleared her throat. “Wipe your tears and let’s go. The men will handle the clean-up. We have a party tomorrow.”
