8. Chapter 8
eight
Bianca
M y mom looked confused. “I don’t understand what you’re asking me, bambina.”
“What does Daddy’s business actually do? I’m an adult. I can handle the truth.”
“He makes money for the family. That’s all that matters.”
“Mamma, that’s not all that matters.”
“It is. He takes care of us, of our needs. Everything else is unimportant.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you asking? You know the family always comes first. Blood is thicker than water.”
I was beginning to hate that phrase. “Family first, family always. I know. But Daddy asked me if I wanted a more active role, and I want to know what that would mean.”
She laughed, the noise bitter. “A woman in the business. Sure, bambina. Men like your father don't trust women for important things.”
“Mamma!” I gasped. Where did this cynical side come from?
“What? You said you’re so grown-up, so I’m talking to you like you are. Your father needs a woman to answer phones in the office, another woman to warm his bed, and a third to keep him satisfied in more demeaning ways than a wife should. I’m lucky. Your uncle combines the last two together.”
“Ma!” I tried again. That couldn’t be right. “Daddy loves you. He would never cheat on you.”
“He’s a family man, right? Yeah, being in the family comes with certain privileges and expectations. I knew that before I married him. Is it cheating if I expected it before he ever proposed?”
“Mamma, that can’t be right. Daddy loves you. He’s always taken care of us.”
“He has,” she agreed. “It’s his duty to us. Affection, care, and financial support. He’s always kept up his end of the bargain.”
“What about love?” It didn’t escape me that she avoided that topic twice already. “Daddy loves us. He wouldn’t hurt our family this way.”
“You’re not getting it, bambina. No one is hurt. A man in his position has needs.”
“Being in the mafia allows you to cheat on your wife? Why do you put up with this, Ma?”
“Family first, darling. I knew what I was getting into. I’m not ashamed or surprised whenever he gets a new lover.”
Oh dear god. “He shouldn’t be doing that if he wanted to put his family first.”
“No, you silly girl. He always puts The Family first. Our little family comes second. Ask anyone. Ask your cousin.”
Which one? The one who was arrested or the one who died in a police stand-off? My six-year-old cousin Bella or poor, sweet Frannie—who I still owed an apology text?
I’d ask as many as I could, but I needed to try again.
“What does Dad do for a living?”
“Whatever it takes.”
I gave her a solemn nod, then made my goodbyes. I didn’t need to ask her not to say anything about our conversation to my dad. Apparently they didn’t have the beautiful, wonderful, communicative relationship I thought they did.
Somehow, that hurt even more than the idea that he did bad illegal things. I felt stupid and betrayed.
I pulled out of the driveway, but only got about half a block down the street before I pulled over to call Frannie. Loud ringing vibrated through the car’s audio system while I waited for her to pick up.
“Bianca Rose, what’s wrong?” She’d asked, sounding out of breath.
I looked at the time and smacked my forehead. She was in school. I was disturbing her in the middle of the school day.
“God, sorry, Fran, I just realized what time it is. Are you in class?”
“It’s lunch period. Are you okay? Why are you calling?”
“Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait until later. You can just call me back after school.”
“No, it’s okay.” I could hear the sounds of a crowd getting quieter around her. “I’m stepping outside. What’s up?”
I paused. “First I wanted to apologize for blowing you off last night. I had a lot of sad-sack feelings going on, but I could tell you wanted to hang, so I’m sorry. I want to treat you to some gelato tonight if you’re up for it.”
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice sounded off. “It’s fine. Someone else took me out for dessert last night.”
“Oh?” I asked, hoping she could hear the way I wiggled my eyebrows in my voice. “Hot date?”
Her laugh was a little too strained. “Oh definitely. It was your dad.”
My dad? She said it sarcastically, but maybe Frannie was the cousin I was supposed to talk to after all.
“Fran, is there something you want to tell me about my dad?”
She laughed again, and it sounded more desperate than the last one. “No, of course not. He’s a nice man. Generous. Always makes sure I have what I need.”
I was getting worried. “Then why do you sound defensive?”
“I’m not! He’s kind. Generous. Gentle.”
Gentle? What the heck?
“Frannie, has my dad touched you?” She was eighteen and a cousin on my mom’s side, no blood relation to him, but that was still really…icky.
“It’s not like that,” she tried to say, but I heard the distress in her voice. “Nothing happened until after my birthday.”
That damn Porche for an eighteenth birthday present. I was disgusted, and not with Fran.
“Fran, honey, do you want me to come get you? We can go somewhere safe.”
“No! It’s fine. He’s going to pay for my college. It’s only a couple more months until I leave for school. I can make it until then.”
Jesus Christ. I did not like the way that sounded.
“And I was only really scared the first time. He’s been really nice since then.”
“Scared?! Did he—”
“No, no. I agreed. It’s what you do for The Family, right? It’s what we signed up for so we get to live the way we do.”
“No, it really isn’t. We can find another way to pay for your college, honey.”
“It’s too late for most scholarships, Bianca Rose.”
It was too late for a lot of things, apparently.
“Fran…”
“The bell just rang. I gotta get to class.” She hung up on me, probably regretting that she took my call in the first place. Me too, babe.
My father really wasn’t the man I thought he was. An adulterer, using his power to scare a teenage girl into his bed. If he didn’t love my mother, if they didn’t have the beautiful relationship I’d always assumed they did, did he even love me?
I hated how unsure of everything I was.
I drove back to the shop, stopping in at the bookstore to confer with Sam, but my storefront was quiet all morning.
I entered my shop, put the watch back on my wrist—just in case—turned the music off, and pretended all was well. I had two minor repairs that were scheduled to be picked up after lunch, but they were finished. A courier was coming to pick up the box of spy watches any moment, so there was nothing to do there, either.
There was no more avoiding it: I needed to deal with my inventory.
I knew it wasn’t common to do a mid-year inventory. I was aware some people might call it pointless, but I worked with rare and unique items, some with obscenely high price tags. I had to make sure I had an accurate account of what was on hand.
I took out my laptop, opened up the familiar spreadsheet, and got going. I started with the display cabinet by the entrance, picking up each timepiece, confirming what it was, and logging the information into my system.
But something was wrong from the first pocket watch I assessed. I didn’t know this piece. I switched tabs in the spreadsheet, looking for the information from my end-of-year inventory from almost six months ago.
No, I wasn’t crazy. Cabinet A, Shelf 1, Position 1 should have been a vintage pocket watch from the 1840s. It was quite valuable, worth almost $5,000. The item in my hand was a knockoff, albeit a very good one. A casual collector would never have been able to tell, but the silver finish was clearly new, not restored to like-new condition. This was probably worth about $250.
Did I make a mistake and miss the obvious the first time around? I made a note in my spreadsheet and moved on to the next piece.
I picked up the wristwatch from Cab A, Shelf 1, Position 2. It was supposed to be an authentic 1890s transitional Swiss watch, but this one was clearly a fake as well. I’d seen similar replicas sell for about €200, not the $1,500 that my watch was priced at.
I assessed piece after piece, finding fakes more often than not. This wasn’t my mistake, it was a pattern. Someone stole from me.
I brought the laptop back to my front counter and settled onto my usual stool. I looked over to the cabinet full of counterfeit watches. I sold something from that cabinet a couple days ago. Had I committed fraud? Was that timepiece a fake as well?
I rubbed at the watch on my wrist. If someone was listening in, I couldn’t raise suspicion. It might already be weird enough that I said nothing for two hours, just had music playing. But I needed to report the theft, right? Would that be disloyal, going to the police even if a crime was committed?
I needed to talk to someone. Off the record. I fished through my tote, looking for my phone. I knew what I needed to do.