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Leo shifts forward, staring at his father from the opposite end of the table, interlacing his fingers and twirling his thumbs. He nods at his father before the call connects on the video screen. “I will listen to what he has to say. But it goes against everything we stand for. Gatakis don’t support liars and thieves. If we do this, we risk our reputation. A reputation that is still smearedfrom the DeLuca screw-up. He will have to convince me why we should stand between a rat and the Silvio family.”
Uncle Cosmos nods and says, “Hear him out before you decide.”
John Reynolds sits in an office. He wears a standard prison-issue jumpsuit, but that’s the only way I can tell he’s even in jail. His pecan-colored skin is flawed by a few lines, and his short, tight curls have only a few silver coils. He looks composed and confident—the opposite of a man pleading for help. His voice is the rich baritone of a blues singer when he greets us.
“Hello, Mr. Gataki. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I understand your time is valuable, and I appreciate the opportunity to explain my situation.”
“Please, call me Cosmos. And yes, I am eager to hear what you have to say.”
“I’ll cut right to the chase. I am in prison for embezzling money from Al Silvio. It was a lot of money, and I’m not proud of what I did. I wish I could say I did it for a good reason, but there’s no excuse. I messed up. Don Silvio discovered what I’d done when I was arrested. Needless to say, he was beyond angry. I’m not asking for mercy from him or you. I accept his punishment like I’ll do my time. I come to you, calling in my father’s favor because I need my daughter protected. I repaid every penny I stole. I added all the interest he requested. He added interest, penalties, and fines. Worse than the courts. But I paid. After he accepted my payment, he visited me and told me the money was repaid—but that I still owed him a debt. When I asked him what more I could give, he said, my daughter.”
We all shift in our seats. No one speaks. No one relays ourdiscomfit. But my uncles all have daughters, and we all have sisters or cousins. Women we love—protect. Women we’d die for before we’d let them be dishonored.
“You have to understand. I’m begging you to understand. My daughter had nothing to do with this. She didn’t use the money on designer bags or spa vacations. She had no idea I even had that much money. My wife had sarcoidosis, which scarred her lungs. My daughter is a good girl. She devoted her life to taking care of her mother. No boyfriends, no college parties—just caring for her ill mother. She’s an angel. Too good and far better than all of us. She doesn’t deserve the shit coming for her. I’m begging you. I will get down on my knees and beg if I have to. Please help her.”
“What do you expect us to do,” Leo asks.
“Marry her. It’s the only way to keep her safe for the rest of her life.”
Jeniah
The phone is cold against my ear, its weight pressing my heart down like a heavy stone. It takes more courage to place this call than to go outside and check myself. I tap in the numbers and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“911, what is your emergency?”
I swallow hard. “I think someone tried to get into my house. The motion lights came on outside, and I thought I heard someone rattling the knob.”
There’s a pause. A harsh intake of breath before the operator’s skepticism creeps through the line. “Ma’am, it’s your third call this week regarding suspicious activity. Are you sure it’s not just the wind or maybe… neighborhood kids? Sometimes, those sensors are too low and react to small animals. I’ve even heard of a field mouse…”
“Unless a mouse can rattle my doorknob, then I need an officer to do his job and check out my neighborhood.” She hisses at my reproach. But I don’t have time for her attitude. She can’t dismiss me like some paranoid girl running from shadows. I pull the curtain back a sliver and peek out the window. The light is off now, and I can’t see a thing. I wipe my hand across my forehead and press it against the back door. My eyes burn, either fromtears or weariness. I don’t know or care. I’m so tired. I haven’t slept in days. Maybe I am paranoid. But who wouldn’t be—I’m the girl whose father stole everyone’s savings and ended up in prison—leaving me alone in a house too big for one.
“Alright, we’ll send someone to check it out. Do you have a safe place to stay until they arrive?”
My breath hitches. Safe? Who could feel safe when eyes follow you everywhere you go? Thank God the media isn’t still camping outside. The last reporter, hoping for an interview, finally stopped stalking me and drove away. Coincidentally, around the same time, the motion lights turned wacky.
“No. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll stay here.”
“Okay, I’ll dispatch a unit. Someone will be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and pad over the side of the couch. The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet. I wait. “Meow.” Milo jumps up to my side, rubbing against my leg. Purring until I kneel to scratch behind his ears.
“Who would want to scare us, huh?” I murmur to him, losing myself in the soft fur gliding under my fingers. “Kids? I’m not crazy, I swear.”
He stares at me with wide, innocent eyes. Does he understand? How could he? He’s just a cat, the only creature in this housethat doesn’t judge. I lean into his warmth and let his purr calm me.
I wait in the living room. I hardly ever come in here. In the last days of Mama’s illness, it served as her bedroom. I look at the corner her hospital bed had occupied because she was too weak to go up the stairs. Father wanted to put her in a nursing home. But she said if she went, she would go in the house she’d grown up in—with her things around her. I almost smile, remembering Father’s reaction. He’d said it wasn’t dignified. But death wasn’t dignified—mama answered.
Is his cell dignified?
Sadness creeps in and thickens the air. I left high school to care for Mama. My mother had struggled to breathe with that cruel disease—sarcoidosis. I spent those years half a parent—replacing laughter with errands, chatting about the latest gossip with hospital visits and medication schedules. Even with the changes in decor, this room is now a painful reminder of everything I lost. She passed away just under a year ago. The dispatchers on the other end of these calls don’t know what it’s like to lose a whole world in a slow drip of an I.V.
My father’s absence is worse. It was the brutal rip of a band-aid ripping off skin. Gone with a vicious Yank when he was arrested three months ago. A single rip, and just like that, he was gone. He cut a deal, took a plea bargain, and in a blink, my childhood—our family—became just me.
I wrap my arms around myself when my eyes burn and my head throbs. I can’t cry. Not now. Not ever.
Milo hops up into my lap, his weight grounding me. He gazesup at me with those knowing eyes, and I can’t help but chuckle softly. I know he’s saying, “You still have me.”
