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  TESSA BAILEY

  Copyright © 2017 Tessa Bailey

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Dedicated to happily ever afters.

  Especially for dogs.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  Teresa

  Airports.

  Some people find them romantic. Others think they’re a nasty business. I fall somewhere in the middle. Crowded from all sides by limousine drivers holding signs and loved ones cradling stuffed bears, I watch in fascination as a man and woman race toward one another. What they must be feeling is so foreign to me, I might as well be watching two manatees mating on the Discovery Channel.

  The closest I’ve ever come to falling in love is sliding on the red Ferragamo pumps I’m wearing—and that isn’t changing any time soon. Unless they release the same style in pink. Then we’ll talk.

  No, there is only one male alive on this planet who could get me to LAX on a busy Saturday afternoon, holding a fistful of balloons. My baby brother, Nicky. I can already picture his reaction when he exits baggage claim, duffel thrown over his shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose to hide the inevitable hangover. He’s going to pretend he doesn’t know me, the adorable scumbag.

  There’s a tight pinch deep inside my chest. I’ve missed torturing Nicky. We both dealt with the death of our parents this year in different ways. He went for a visit to Staten Island to revisit his roots—and, I’m guessing, ex-girlfriends.

  Me? I hustled.

  The money our parents left us isn’t going to last forever. Nicky still has a couple years left until he finishes college, rent in Los Angeles isn’t cheap and I have a weakness for Italian leather. My film school pipe dream is definitely last on the necessities list, which is good, because it’s such a long shot, I refuse to even hope for an acceptance letter.

  Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I glance up to check the Arrivals screen. Nicky’s flight landed forty minutes ago. On time. Baggage claim at LAX is notoriously snail-paced, but my brother should be out by now.

  “Relax,” I mutter, ignoring a look from the limo driver to my right. “He’s coming home. He promised.”

  Nicky is all I’ve got. Our parents chiseled the word family on our souls, but they needn’t have bothered. I was only three years old when he was born, but I’ve loved my brother from the moment I laid eyes on him. Even when he grew up, developed a chip on his shoulder and started behaving like a prick on occasion, that love only manifested deeper. He’s my blood. And he belongs in Los Angeles with his often broke, overprotective sister. Not in New York.

  Our parents moved us across the country nine years ago for a damn good reason. They’re not here anymore. And that makes Nicky my responsibility.

  Swallowing hard, my gaze travels to the clock again. Forty-five minutes. In a desperate attempt to make myself feel better, I replay the conversation I had with Nicky four weeks ago, when I dropped him off in this very spot.

  Chill, Teresa. I’m just going to see some friends. I’ll be back in time for school. You’ll live without someone to boss around for a month.

  You love it. She’d ruffled his dark, unkempt mop of hair. Don’t come back smelling like the old neighborhood. You know what I mean.

  I know you worry too much. His attention had strayed toward the security line. All right, I’m out. Don’t get used to having the toilet seat down.

  Nicky. We’d traded a heavy look. Please. Be careful.

  When the phone rings in my pocket, playing the old classic “Lean on Me,” my fingers go instantly numb. I let go of the balloons, watching them float to the ceiling. Intuition buzzes in my middle like a mosquito hitting a bug zapper. That’s Nicky’s ringtone. He’s been hard to reach all month, flippant when I finally pinned him down to get his flight information. Where is he? I won’t believe the worst yet. He’s not stupid enough to get sucked into the very situation we left behind. No way.

  But if that’s true, why isn’t he here yet?

  The buzz stops, starts again, and I stumble backward—clumsy in my high heels for once—out of the crowd. For the first time, I notice the faces in that sea of loved ones have changed since arriving. Been replaced with new features.

  Horror scales the insides of my throat, and finally, I start fumbling for my phone. Cursing my skinny jeans, I manage to pry the bright pink, squalling device from my pocket. It’s Nicky. With the acrylic point of my index fingernail, I punch talk and press the cool glass to my ear. “You, uh…” I have to stop for a stuttered breath. “You tie one on last night and miss your plane, dickhead?” No answer. The airport starts to close in around me. “Typical, b-but that’s fine. It’s fine. I can go home and do laundry and watch Game of Thrones or whatever. Book another flight on the emergency credit card. I’ll be here when you land—”

  “You’re rambling, Resa. You’re always doing that when you get nervous.”

  His voice fills me with relief and escalating fear, all at once. If he’s calm, he’s not worried or pissed about missing his plane. “You’ve got some nerve sounding bored.” I steel myself. “Where are you, Nicky?”

  Silence.

  “Tell me you’re trying to sneak out of a girl’s hotel room in Atlantic City.” I start to pace, one high heel click for every ten pounds of my heart. “Hell, tell me you’re in the tombs waiting to make bail. Anything.”

  A shaky sigh floats down the line. “I didn’t come home knowing this would happen. Okay? I…everyone we used to know is wrapped up in the game now. I couldn’t get away from it. It just sucked me in.”

  I fixate on the first thing he said. “New York isn’t your home.”

  “Yes, it is. And it’s yours, Resa.” His hardened tone makes my free hand lift, press to my throat. “It was theirs, too. Mom and Dad’s. We were living in Los Angeles, but we never really left Staten Island. You can’t.”

  “You have school here. Friends.” I clear the wobble from my voice. “I’m here. We’re good together, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, Resa. We were good. You’ve always made sure of it.” A second later, his momentary warmth fades. Gone like a whistle in the breeze. Were good, he’d said. Past tense. “Go home. Watch Thrones and work on that application for film school. I’ll come visit as soon as I get a chance.”

  “I already sent in the application,” I say, sounding numb. Someone bumps my elbow and I don’t even have the energy to flash them a middle finger.

  “Good for you, sis.” A pause. “I’m proud of y
ou.”

  “I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to be the one who’s proud.” My mouth is dry as dust, making it impossible to swallow. I’m afraid to ask him my next question. Terrified I already know the answer. “You went to work for Silas Case. Didn’t you?”

  No response.

  I find a pillar and use it for support, waving off a man who asks if I need help. “Dad is spinning in his grave right now, Nicky,” I rasp. I’m seeing none of my surroundings. Just blurring colors and flashes of the past. “You know what he had to do to get out of that life? How dare you run straight back into it. How dare you throw away the new life he gave us.”

  “Me? I’m throwing it away?” My brother’s voice deepens, so different from the boy I helped raise. The boy I have a bone-deep responsibility to protect at any cost. “Let’s be real, Resa. You’re not at the library at night, studying film craft. You’re not doing extra work on some Hollywood lot, either, even though that’s what you tell me. Neither of those things makes the kind of cash you bring home.”

  Lies spring to my lips, but I don’t give them a voice. So my brother knows about my job. If not the specifics, then at least the illegal nature. I swallow the shame and focus on the matter at hand. “What I do, Nicky, is not in Silas Case’s league. It’s a million miles from it.” Grasping for a new tactic, I soften my tone. “Don’t you remember Dad when he worked for Silas? He was a ghost. Scared his job would get us killed. Mom was a wreck.” He makes a wounded sound and I experience a flare of hope. “You’ll have no life. It will be expendable. Everyone is expendable to that man. Nicky, please. Please. Get your shit and get on a plane.” I can no longer keep the desperation out of my voice. “If you’ve already done something, don’t say it. Don’t tell me now. Just know that I’ll be ready to move once you land. It’s not too late.”

  His laughter is sad. Scared. So unlike my swaggering, gum-snapping, snort-chuckling brother. “I-I…think it’s too late, Resa.”

  There it is. There’s my little brother. I can hear him beaming out through the cracks, making a plea for help. The way he spoke to me before was just a tactic. A strategy. He’s twenty years old, but with those five words, he’s gone back to being the kid who cried for three days when he found out Santa wasn’t real. My brother. The only family I have left.

  The nearby ticket counter comes into focus. “I’m coming to get you.”

  “No!” His shout hurts my ear. “It’s not like how I remember it when we were kids, all right? When it was just strange men coming over to speak with Dad. Or reading about shit that happened overnight in Staten Island and wondering if Dad and his friends were involved. I’m in it. It’s real. We’re not kids with only half a clue anymore. That means—”

  “No sympathy. I understand the risk.”

  “Then stay the hell in Los Angeles.”

  “Nicky, when people give me an order, what do I do?”

  His curse is creative. “The opposite.”

  “Correct.” Having a course of action gets me jogging for the airport exit. “I’m going to take care of this. Try and have a smidgen of faith in me.”

  “I should’ve lied.” Misery oozes down the line. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have called you at all.”

  Picking up speed at the crosswalk, I brush off the hurt. “You know why you did call me with the truth, little bro?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need me. That’s why. Because we’re family. We don’t just embarrass each other in public, we have one another’s backs. It’s part of the deal.” I reach the parking lot and hit the alarm on my keychain, a little trick I use to locate my car faster. “Hang tight. I’m going to take care of everything. And maybe someday I’ll forgive you for sending me to LAX on a Saturday for fuck all.”

  “I love you, Resa. Dammit. I’m sorry I messed up.” His voice cracks on the last word, telling me I was right. My little brother is scared. Which is only good for one thing. Making me angry—and about four thousand times as determined to go to New York and pluck my brother out of Silas Case’s blood-covered hands.

  “Hang tight, kiddo.” When I reach my car, I notice a group of Marines in uniform checking me out, so I throw them a pinky wave. “And don’t tell anyone I’m coming. I like to make an entrance.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Teresa

  It’s not that I don’t love Staten Island.

  Okay, fine. I don’t love Staten Island. But it has nothing to do with aesthetics. Working-class heroes take pride in their homes, lawns and businesses. It’s got charm. It’s got swagger. But if you live here, you better own a pair of brass balls, because as far as the rest of New York City is concerned, you’re the bastard stepchild borough. No one is going to stick up for Staten Island except you. Which brings me to yet another truth about this place.

  Shit does not change.

  Standing across the street from Tommaso’s, I’m leaning against a brick wall of the deli where I bought my first and last pack of Parliaments, before my mother caught and grounded me for a month. My black hoodie is zipped up and pulled down low over my face. There’s an AM New York in my hands, but I’m not reading a single word. No, I’m watching Silas Case follow the same damn routine he followed when I was a child and used to ride bikes on this block. He’s unlocking the door to the restaurant—a place he doesn’t even own—and pacing inside to make an espresso. His first of many throughout the day, while men slip in through the back door to drop off envelopes. Tribute to the boss.

  Here. Hold my eyeroll.

  I suppose there have been subtle changes. Silas definitely has a lot more white hair, more molasses gooing up his step. If I were filming this scene, I would open with a nice establishing shot. Get the whole old-school, business-lined block in, before switching over to a low-angle shot of Silas. Close-up on the shuffling steps of his shiny wingtips. His wrinkled hands as he unlocks the door. A suspicious look over his shoulder toward the hooded figure across the street.

  He disregards them with a grunt, though, because this is his neighborhood. And no one fucks with Silas Case around here.

  In picturing the various camera angles, I realize my eyes have drifted shut, yearning tickling my belly. My mind drifts to the application to The Film Institute I dropped into the mailbox last week, my hopes and dreams sealed tight inside yellow manila.

  Probably won’t happen.

  Definitely won’t happen.

  Focus on the task ahead. This isn’t a movie. This is real life. The man who just slipped inside Tommaso’s isn’t an innocent, doddering old relic. He’s a dangerous felon who could ruin my brother’s life. Throw him into the dire circumstances my parents fought to keep us from. If this were a movie, though, I know exactly how it would end. My brother and I sitting beside one another on an airplane, a feminine voice coming over the PA system to announce we’re headed to Los Angeles. Click. Our seatbelts connect. Fade to white.

  “Quiet on the set,” I murmur, unzipping my hoodie and tucking it beneath my arm. The absence of my sweatshirt leaves me in a tank top that’s as tight as a second layer of skin. I immediately feel more in control with my body as a weapon. Not that I intend to unleash it on Silas Case. God, no. It’s more of a battlefield tactic—one that rarely fails me.

  My inner confidence is less substantial than quicksand, but who’s going to notice when the outline of my demi cup is much more interesting? “And we’re rolling…” Once I’m across the street, I toss the newspaper into a dented, green trashcan and walk into Tommaso’s unannounced.

  A gun barrel winks back at me in the darkness. “Who the fuck?”

  Pause.

  In my attempts to break into the entertainment industry, I’ve had several shitty bit parts as an actress, so I’ve been around a lot of fake guns. But I’ve only seen a real gun on a single occasion.

  My father came home late one night, which wasn’t unusual. He didn’t notice me sitting in the shadows in the living room as he discarded his shoes in a plastic garbage bag, then carefully sli
d a gun from a shoulder holster, stowing it in the bag, along with his shoes. Loafers my mother had bought him for Christmas. As long as I live, I will never forget his expression when he turned and saw me. Devastation. Why hadn’t I just stayed in bed?

  That night, we drove together to the edge of a river, filled the bag with rocks and let the current take it away. The very next day, my father approached Silas Case and demanded to be let out of the oath he’d taken.

  That same boss points a weapon at me now. And it’s not a movie prop.

  Get the upper hand back. Don’t let him see your fear.

  “Teresa Valentini.” Hoping to hide the fact that I’m trembling, I jerk my chin toward the sputtering espresso machine. “I like a lemon twist with mine.”

  “Valentini.” Silas doesn’t blink, but there’s recognition in his tone. “You been out of this neighborhood so long you forget how to have some goddamn respect?”

  I raise my eyebrows, hopefully giving no indication that I’m on the verge of peeing my pants. “You’re the one pointing a gun at an unarmed female.”

  “I didn’t stay alive this long by taking chances.” He dips the gun, indicating my waist, the sweatshirt tucked under my arm. “Prove it.”

  Thankful I left my trusty stun gun back at the Motel 6 I checked into, I lift my hands in the air and let the hoodie drop. I turn in a circle, rolling my eyes when he makes an appreciative sound. It doesn’t even make me want to cringe. Oh no, this is familiar ground, having my body serve as a distraction. Same way I do at work, I lean into that lecher behavior and show Silas it doesn’t affect me whatsoever. I lift up my shirt, giving him a better view of my back waistband. When I’m facing him again, I even give my tits a nice little shake. “No gun. No wire. What do you say? Can we be friends now?”

  His coffee-stained eyes narrow, humor curling one end of his mouth. “I remember you now. Couldn’t have been older than fourteen when your father left like a thief in the night.”