Sin, page 19
“How can they live with themselves?” London asks me thirty minutes later; the evidence I’ve given her so far lies on the floor where the folder landed after slipping through her fingers. She’s shaking, begging me to make it go away, but I can’t. I’m going to do what no one else had the decency to do, and tell her the truth. “My life has been nothing but a lie. One on top of another while the castle they built is now drowning me.”
“It was never your mother’s intention to hurt you, sweetheart, but she made bad decisions.” I bend down to gather the folder and its fallen contents before taking her hand and walking us to a small seating area inside my office. Waiting for her signal to continue isn’t easy when all I want to do is break those chains holding her down.
After a little while, London holds out her hand for the information again. “They’re not my family.”
Not a question. It’s a statement, and I nod beside her. “No. They aren’t.”
“Okay…” she swallows hard, lip trembling “…how do I find out who my biological—”
“Already done.” Pulling out the second sheet inside the file, I hand it to her. Just stay quiet as she reads every line with precision. I’ve seen the photos of her mother, and while they hold a resemblance, there’s also a deep connection to her father’s Italian roots. Her complexion, hair color, and even the slightly fuller lips come from his side of the family. His mother and sister were the same.
“Julian Conte,” Twirl says the name slowly, tilting her head to the side. Thinking, the deep furrow of her brows and the faraway look in her eyes tell me as much. “I’ve heard that name in passing all my life. Julian Conte.” Closing her eyes, she sits back against the cushions. Two tears fall, and she doesn’t wipe them away. “You know, most fights between them ended with his name being shouted out by Marcus, and all this time, I just thought it was some model or actor from their youth that Mom had the hots for and he was jealous of.”
London’s sad eyes open and land on mine. “How did you find all of this? Why?”
“Beside my own concern for you?”
“Yes.”
“Earl and Mary are terrified you’ll end up like your mom. A shadow of herself.”
“They know?” she gasps, sitting forward while I nod in confirmation. “Why the hell didn’t they tell me anything? Why stay quiet all this time?”
“Because Marcus threatened to move you far away and cut all contact. With hurting you physically, and neither was willing to take that chance. They had no help, London, and did the best they could to be there for you.”
“Jesus, this is…” she trails off, and I wrap her tightly in my arms as the first sob breaks free from her chest. Just hold her to me while the reality of what could’ve been seeps through, and we’re not even at the worst. Where my suspicions lie.
Seeing her tears feels like a dagger to my chest. It hurts.
Caring for someone does that to you. Their pain is yours, and you will tear the world apart to take it away. Nothing has proven this fact to me more than seeing her this distraught.
The way London clings to me so desperately further ignites my need for their blood. I want her gripping me from pleasure, never pain.
Kissing her forehead, I breathe in her sweet scent. It helps calm me. Keeps my focus on her and not ending them. I made a promise that their end will be slow, and it will be. Each strike from me will leave them reeling—crying for a mercy I will never grant.
“They both love you but couldn’t take on either of them. Not without help, because sadly, they know someone in the Chicago PD that covers for them.”
Her head shoots up at that, blue orbs wide with fear. “Lieutenant Bristol. That’s who they know…he and Alton went to high school together.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Slowly, I wipe the dampness from her cheeks. “I knew the whom, just needed confirmation on the connection.”
“He’s a cocky jerk. The guy has always given me the creeps.”
“Did he ever touch you?” There’s an unmistakable bite to my tone. If he has, the Lieutenant will be dead by the end of the night.
“Was he creepy? Yes, but never moved past a leer or comments on my looks. I swear.”
“Okay.” I’ll leave it at that for now, but something still doesn’t sit right with me about this man. Especially if he’s covering for the Fosters because no one does anything without some sort of personal gain. His job is on the line and so is possible jail time if found out.
What did they offer him?
London grabs the file then and continues to look over each document, pausing on a particular one detailing the Conte family. The one she will never get to meet. “They’re all dead?”
“All except for your cousin Aurora who lives in the Lincoln Park area. She’s the daughter of your father’s sister who passed away a few years ago due to complications from a kidney transplant.”
“I have a cousin,” she breathes out, and for the first time since we started this talk, Twirl smiles. It’s a curious one with just a hint of excitement. “Mom was an only child and my grandparents died when I was small…I’ve never had anyone outside of the Fosters.”
“Well, now you have my family, and we’re crazy enough to keep you entertained for years to come.”
“You’ll probably give me greys early.” And it’s that comment that lets me know she’ll be more than okay. The sadness lingers, but it won’t be permanent. This opens the doors for her to another world, and I think that gives her hope.
“That mouth of yours.” I give her a playful growl before leaning over to nip her shoulder. “But there’s more to discuss, and I need your attention for a minute.”
“What else?” There’s trepidation in her tone.
“You’re the sole beneficiary in your mothers will, London. Just you.”
“That can’t be right…they…Marcus told me…fuck!” She rubs a hand down her face. “It’s mine?”
I get up and kneel in front of her, bring our faces level, and I’m proud to see some anger in those expressive blue orbs. “Say the word, and I’ll proceed with getting everything handed back to you. The house is yours and so is the monthly stipend you get—and they’ve been misspending—until you turn twenty-one and receive your inheritance from Amelia and Julian.”
“And the Fosters?”
“Karma.”
“In that case…word.”
27
FOR THE LAST THREE days I’ve been under a fog.
Just going through the motions as I make peace with what I now know to be the truth. Everything I knew is a lie. A tiny fib that at first seems innocent—a man finding love with a widow, wanting to take care of her and her small child as they navigate through their new normal. It has all the makings of the perfect daytime movie on one of the popular channels women fawn over.
But it’s not like that in reality. This story is a nightmare that I have not fully awoken from.
How can I? For years, I was nothing more than a servant to those two men—the same two that were supposed to be family. My protectors.
I did everything they told me to. Have been working to help pay bills and fund their vices so I could escape their threats for another day.
I’m a joke to them. Nothing but a pawn.
Truth is that the more I read, the more it stings. The angrier I am.
“Sick assholes,” I hiss out, putting my hair up in a loose bun before grabbing the next paper in the file Malcolm gave me. This one has Julian’s information, and I read through it for the thousandth time. Seeing in bold black ink where he’s from and the dynamic of his family makes me both happy and melancholic.
Happy because I can see they were good people. Sad because I will never have that with them.
You have Malcolm now.
And I do. God knows he’s been a saint as I sort my head.
I’m safe because of him. Because he cares.
I want to stay for him. Make him happy.
However, right now my focus is on my father’s life story on these next few pages:
How his parents were from Rome and came here when Dad was three.
What schools he went to, where they lived here in Chicago, and the pictures of my parents on their wedding day. The smiles on their faces brings one to my own, and how he looks at her reminds me of the way Malcolm gazes at me. It’s that same sweet and unguarded expression that makes my skin flush and heart beat fast.
Then there’s the knowledge that my father’s buried in the same mausoleum as my mother. That they’re resting together, and that every time I visit, he’s there listening too. Dad’s ashes lie in the space beside my mother’s. Something she did without anyone’s knowledge—without Marcus finding out—so she could be with him again someday.
The last few pages in this file explain the financial situation I’m in. What has been taken; the sale of Dad’s restaurant chain, and how at his death, everything he owned went to Mom and then me. The details of two hefty life insurance policies are here too, and while the amounts surprise me, learning that Marcus knew my father before his death doesn’t sit well with me.
A horrible feeling I can’t shake churns within my gut the more I think about it. The more I stare at the few pictures that Malcolm put inside the folder.
Why would my father associate with a man like him?
My guess is that it all comes down to money.
Back then it was his or hers, and now it’s mine. The Fosters want and have plans for it.
Knowing all these minute details helps me put together the pieces of a puzzle that were missing. Things that now make sense the more I think about it.
All my life I’ve thought that Alton and I are nothing alike. We differ in both personalities and looks. No resemblance whatsoever outside of our blue eyes, and his are a darker shade than mine. For years, I just thought that each kid took after one parent, but it’s so obvious to me now how wrong I was.
Mom wouldn’t hurt a fly, while Marcus doesn’t care about anyone other than himself. She was selfless to his selfish.
“I’ve been so blind,” I mutter to myself and rub my left eye. I’m tired. Just plain ol’ exhausted but can’t stop re-reading what these papers say. “How could Mom let him—”
“Breaking News,” comes from the TV then, stopping my train of thought. The local anchor is on the screen and tilting her iPad toward her. Her face shows no emotions while her eyes are wide, looking at someone beside her and then at the monitor. “An explosion occurred a few minutes ago at a warehouse near the South Side now known to be the headquarters of a local prostitution ring. Luckily, no one was on the premises when the blast occurred, and the authorities are searching for the identity of the owner.” She pauses and looks toward another camera. “We’ll have more for you soon as our team arrives on the scene. If you or someone you know has any information that can help arrest those responsible, please call the number on your screen.”
Doesn’t Alton rent a building in the South Side? I know I’ve seen the rental agreement for it.
I haven’t heard a peep from the Fosters in five days now.
Not from them. Not from my Malcolm about them.
Nothing. Not even confirmation of my suspicions about the explosions that took out a large building on the South Side.
It’s almost as if they don’t exist, and I like it. Love the peace and normalcy I’m experiencing.
Things that to other people are boring, I’m enjoying—from doing laundry to watching a cooking show during the middle of the day—there’s no rush in my schedule or fear of someone’s wrath. I’m just being me. Thinking. Figuring at my pace what I want to do with the rest of my life.
For the first time, nothing’s off the table and everything has possibilities.
My life at the moment is domesticated bliss, while tomorrow I could go back to school and he’d be just as happy for me. He enjoys my cooking, more than Magda’s, but will adjust if that’s what I need. I am falling for this man more and more every day.
His generosity. How sweet he is with me.
How safe I am because everyone around us respects him.
The small things he does to let me know he cares.
Like now, I’m at the stove finishing our dinner as he walks through the door that connects the garage to the house. He’s smiling at me with a long-stemmed rose in his hand. It’s a light blush and in full bloom. “Honey, I’m home,” he croons with this handsome-ish, cocky grin on his face that only he can pull off. His strides are long as he walks over, the dark pinstripe three-piece suit he’s wearing looks delicious on his body. This man is perfection. “Miss me?”
“Someone’s in a good mood.” Taking the flower from him, I crook a finger, so he crouches a bit to my level. Without any kind of heels, it’s hard to reach him even if I stand on the tip of my toes. When he does, I don’t hesitate to kiss his smiling mouth. Just a quick peck, then nibble. “And thank you.”
“I’m in a great mood.” Malcolm wraps his arms around my body, pulling me closer. Chest to chest. “You’re here, and the food smells delicious. What’re you making?”
“Enchiladas two ways.” My own hands explore. Caressing his arms and then shoulders, I dig my fingers in a bit on my way to the nape of his neck where I embed my fingers in his hair. “Then for dessert, I made my very first flan.”
Making our dinner has become my thing. Gives me a chance to spoil him a bit.
Magda gave me complete use of her kitchen, and I gave her the afternoon off. She’s been here for years and I didn’t want to step on her toes, but when I mentioned wanting to do this, Magda just gave me a huge hug and told me to go nuts and have fun. That this is my house too.
“Fuck, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he groans and then slants his mouth over mine. This kiss is hungry, a full possession of my senses as his tongue meets mine—caressing and tasting me. His body is wound tight against mine. Muscles clenching, Malcolm picks me up and places me on the countertop beside the stove, stepping between my parted thighs and pressing his throbbing length against my cotton-covered core.
The thin material of my shorts lets me feel him. All of him.
His slacks do little to hide his desire for me, and I want more.
To explore, and I almost say this when the timer goes off.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, but he pulls back. Just a few steps, but it does nothing to cool the need burning through my veins. “Ignore the food. Come back.”
Malcolm shakes his head, that same shitty grin is back. “No.”
“Why?” I pout, eyes wandering down his body and settling on the thick outline of his length. “I’ll leave it in the warmer and—”
“I’m going to run upstairs and take a shower…” my mouth opens to protest, but the predatory gleam in his eyes shuts me up “…behave, and I’ll eat you for dessert later, instead.”
“Have I thanked you for dinner yet?” His lips skim my ear, causing goose bumps to break out across my skin. His breath fans across my neck and then lower when he nibbles on my shoulder. “Told you how fantastic it was?”
“Only about a hundred times.” I’m sitting between his spread thighs on the living room couch with my back to his chest. His bare chest. There’s some thriller movie playing in the background, based on a book he seems to love, but for the life of me I can’t concentrate. I’m tense. Aware of every solid inch of him and this overwhelming need to please him.
Maybe it’s because of how gentle he’s been with me or the way he helps me sort through my thoughts. How he never fails to ask me what I want or what plans I have for us in the future.
How proud of me he was when I told him my desire to open a foundation that helps women escape violent situations. Victims—women and children—who have no way out of the nightmare they live in. People like myself; who escaped because someone cared enough to save them.
Malcolm inserts himself so flawlessly into my tomorrows, and I don’t find myself minding his company one bit. I value his opinions. His intelligence.
Everything about him drives me crazy in the best of ways. I want more.
More time. More of his touch. More of these drugging little flicks of his tongue over the area right beneath my earlobe.
However, every time I try…he puts a stop to my advances.
He’s waiting on me to heal from the lies that broke my heart, but what he fails to realize is that he put me back together again that same night.
“Well, it was amazing, and I appreciate the effort.” His fingertips skim the edge of my loose tank top, dipping beneath the hem to caress my stomach.
“You’re welcome, and none needed.” It’s a low keening sound that escapes without my permission. Slowly, those same hands wander high, over my torso and stop around my neck. One alone takes up the entire expanse, and I’m distracted by how unafraid I am of him.
His masculinity calls to the inner slut in me. How much bigger he is—his hardness to my petite form is a turn-on. It makes me think of more intimate moments where he could easily dominate me. Take me.
I want him to claim me.
“I’m going to enjoy spoiling you, Twirl,” he whispers, tightening his hand so I can feel the thin metal chain he’s holding against my throat. Where he’s hid it all this time, I have no clue, but then again being distracted does that to a person. The charm digs into the skin a bit. It’s cold, small and round, a delicate piece that he brings up to my face after letting go. “My tiny dancer. So beautiful and devilishly sweet.”
“Malcolm,” it’s a breathless sigh. My eyes are on the thin, gold chain with a vintage locket hanging from it. The intricate design on it is beautiful, but what stands out is the delicate ballerina in an en pointe pose. “It’s so pretty and too much. You’ve already—”
“Arguing with me will get you nowhere, London.” Large fingers open the clasp and show me an old photo inside. “Do you like it?”
