Chapter 4
ROSALIE
“Are you listening to me?” my mother questioned as she adjusted her wide-brimmed hat—a recent addition to her extensive collection—while placing her newest catalog, glossy and filled with the latest trends, down on the glass table between us.
The truth was, I hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was going on about. I was ready for a long, much-needed nap.
“Yes.” I mustered a smile—forced and probably unconvincing, judging by the way her perfectly arched eyebrow shot up.
“No, you’re not. I don’t know why I even bother anymore. You’re just like your father.”
I looked up at her through my glasses, their frames balanced on the bridge of my nose, while I nursed the frozen drink in my hands. This one tasted like lime. The tequila was my favorite part.
I took a sip and looked out over the pool.
Daisy was on the other side chatting with one of my mother’s friends, Margot, on the patio.
Margot wore a blue floral dress that matched the pool’s shimmering turquoise surface, and her long neck was decorated with a pearl necklace, which was probably genuine considering her husband’s salary.
Margot owned a gallery in the city—a fact I knew from having endured countless car rides filled with my mother’s effusive praise for her “artistic vision.” Truth be told, I wouldn’t know the difference between her art and a crayon scribble on a napkin, but for some reason, my mother loved it.
“Is Margot having a showing soon?” I asked.
“Yes,” my mother mumbled. “Do you plan on attending?”
The gallery was nice, but attending showings often felt like the social equivalent of watching paint dry—only, paint was probably more stimulating than the forced conversations and endless small talk about finger food and the weather.
But Margot had a daughter, Brooke, and she was the one with the true “artistic vision.” I loved her artwork. In fact, I was collecting it. If I could have bought each piece, I would have done. I just needed a house big enough to display one on each wall.
Oh, and a credit card with no limit.
“Perhaps,” I finally replied, refraining from a deep yawn.
My mother, the social butterfly with a hidden agenda, was always dragging me and Daisy to art showings growing up.
I vividly remember the first time I went—obviously, a traumatic experience for a thirteen-year-old who was forced to wear a sparkly monstrosity of a dress.
It wasn’t until I saw the price tags attached to each piece of art that I truly understood the extent of my mother’s spending habits.
The art reflected an impulse that was beyond her understanding.
She spent money as if it were an unconscious decision, like breathing.
But I could understand that. Her mother was Esme Lauderdale, who spent much more, I was sure.
“Well, you should certainly make an effort to,” my mother continued. “Supporting local artists is important, and Margot would be thrilled to see you there.”
Thrilled. Right . . . I just couldn’t wait to have a chat with her, the woman who thrived on attention. “Of course,” I mumbled, taking another sip.
“Excellent. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the new summer collection! Simply divine, don’t you think?” She continued to ramble on, giving me detailed descriptions of a sundress and how it was made of the best material.
The latest collections, the most fashionable designer clothes—my mother had to have it all.
My entire childhood was basically a montage of shopping sprees and endless wardrobe changes, all fueled by Momma’s need for the latest labels.
I’d spend hours in her closet pretending to be her.
I admired her elegance. And her style. She was in love with herself—anyone could see it.
She treated me like a mini version of herself, and I loved it.
I wanted her clothes, her jewelry, and her shoes. Definitely the shoes.
I wanted to end up just like her.
And I had. Her spending habits seemed to be hereditary.
“Let me see,” I said, reaching for the catalog with grabby fingers. Quickly, I looked. “Wow.”
“You’d look amazing in it. Lucas would agree,” she said bluntly.
I swallowed. “He’s going to be at the gallery?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but perhaps I could get your father to put together a dinner at the marina next Friday. We could invite Lucas. That would give you a chance to get to know him more.”
My stomach lurched. Here it came again, the Lucas Express, chugging full steam ahead toward a station I hadn’t even bought a ticket for.
Every spare moment, it seemed, my mother’s insufferable nagging came at me full force.
The ring, the dress, the venue, the cake, the man.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I was slowly starting to lose my mind.
“The engagement hasn’t even happened yet,” I argued.
“Lucas is a good man,” Momma mumbled through the magazine. She licked her finger to turn the page. “You should think about him more.”
No. I’d like to see her deal with the smell of cigarettes. I would never kiss a man who smoked—I couldn’t stand it.
Jackson was the better of the two, but that didn’t make him that much better. Either way, deep down, I knew whichever one I ended up with would die the same tragic death as the last two.
My love life was starting to feel like a morbid game show. How Long Will This One Last? Maybe they should start taking bets in Vegas.
I wanted to roll my eyes but settled on a loud sigh. “Maybe,” I said, my words soaked in sarcasm. Maybe not . . . I was already dreading the gallery; I didn’t want to worry about Lucas too. A dinner with him was enough to make me chug Pepto-Bismol by the gallon.
I gazed at the sun as it kissed the surface of my skin. The glimmer of the gold bracelet Mama got me a few years ago reflected the light with a glare that could blind me if I held it at just the right angle.
“Maybe,” Momma echoed, knowing I was full of it. “Maybe sooner rather than later, dear. There’s no need to be so picky.”
Here she was again, calling me picky.
“Why not? You were,” I bit back.
My mother was the living embodiment of “do as I say, not as I do.”
“Honey,” she began with a pause. “It’s not that I don’t understand the desire for independence. I had it too once.” She finally looked up from her magazine. “This isn’t about me. This is about your future, and Lucas seems like a perfectly decent man. Kind, successful—”
“Arrogant, smelly . . .”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? All he talks about is his stock portfolio. Thrilling.”
She sighed. “You’re focusing on the superficial, Rose. Don’t you want someone with stability? Someone who can provide for you?”
I guess she was right.
I didn’t argue further. With a pointed smile, I pushed myself out of the chair, hoping the magazine would keep her distracted. Fat chance.
She glanced at her phone, which lit up with a notification. “Oh, and Rose?” Her voice cut out. “Your father said yes. Don’t forget to track down Sean for a ride to the marina next Friday.”
“Right . . . Where is Sean?”
“He should be in the garage.”
Max was usually the one who serviced the cars, not Sean. Not that I was complaining. I did not want a repeat of the ride home, trapped in a metal box with a man whose silence was as dense as fog. It wasn’t exactly my cup of tea.
“Okay, great,” I said before turning on my heel once more and stalking off to the garage.
Reaching the door, I pushed it open. The hinges creaked through the enclosed space. The air grew cooler. The smell of gasoline and motor oil made my nose scrunch.
On the far-right side of the garage, Sean was there, bent over an engine block. Grease covered his forearms and his knuckles.
Despite his focus, a bright smile lit up his face as soon as he saw me.
“Are ya here to help me out, kiddo?” he asked, his voice encouraging me to step inside further. A single lock of dark brown hair fell across his forehead as he turned his attention to me completely.
He gestured to a space beside him—a small space on the toolbox that he wanted me to use as a seat, it seemed.
I settled on the cool metal, the worn grooves biting into the fabric of my dress.
His large arms, dusted with grime, tensed slightly as he shifted his weight, one hand coming to rest on the dented hood of a car that looked like it had seen better days.
“Do you need it?” I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could fully form the question.
Logic dictated I shouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t know a spark plug from a lug nut, and my mechanical expertise extended as far as changing a flat tire (with copious amounts of swearing and online tutorials).
My “help” included chitchat, and that was about all.
He shrugged, his arm shaking the car slightly. “Cars . . . boats . . . same mechanics.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing off the wall of the garage. “Right,” I agreed. “But Max usually handles the cars. Shouldn’t he be doing this instead of you?”
“Not the man you expected?”
Disappointed? Not exactly.
Relieved? Maybe.
I needed a ride home (and to the marina, apparently), preferably from a man who wasn’t six foot four with a stupid, stupid smile.
“Max took off about a week ago,” Sean explained, wiping the back of his hand across a grease-streaked forehead. “Needed some time off, he said.”
Needed some time off? Max, the man who seemed to thrive on constant movement, was taking a break?
The image didn’t compute. He was the human equivalent of the Duracell Bunny. What would he even do on a break? Rob banks? Sneak people out of prison? Who knew?
“Speaking of Max,” I began, ready to complain. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that little joyride. Why on earth would you do that to me?”
Sean chuckled deeply. “I was helping your father deal with Ricky after the whole drink incident. Plus, Max offered.”
He offered? I wondered if that meant anything. Still, I watched Sean with a deadpan expression. “We drove home in silence.”
“Ay, that’s typical for him,” he said with a shrug. “The secret is to talk to him anyway.”
“Talking too much frustrates him,” I countered, recalling Max’s brooding expressions and occasional irritated sighs. He wasn’t known for patience either.
“Exactly. That’s the trick, see?” Sean’s grin widened with more mischief than amusement. “You gotta talk to him anyway. It throws him off-balance. Sometimes, you can even manage to coax a smile outta the old grouch.”
Old? How old was Max anyway?
“You have a death wish,” I said with a scoff, but a smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
“Perhaps, but I’ll go down with a laugh.” He enjoyed getting on Max’s nerves, and to be honest, so did I, though for far different reasons.
“So what exactly happened with Ricky?” I finally asked, my curiosity piqued.
His smile softened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We took care of him. Took some doing though. Stubborn mule, that one.”
“You took care of him?” My voice hitched. “You mean . . .?”
He gave me a nod. “Ricky messed up. He crossed a line—one your father makes very clear—and sometimes, lines need to be erased permanently, yeah?”
I held his gaze. Sean may look a lot nicer than most mobsters, but that didn’t make him any less terrifying.
Daisy got a man killed because she spilled a drink on him?
I had a feeling there was more to the story.
The Outfit thrived on a delicate balance of power; of knowing but not knowing.
It was a world where silence spoke volumes, and sometimes, the loudest voices were the ones that went unheard.
“I know Ricky wasn’t the best person, but death seems a little much for a spilled drink,” I began. “At least, I thought he was a family friend.”
“Friendships get complicated in this business,” Sean said with a sigh, putting a wrench down on the table. “Ricky got too close to something he shouldn’t have. Made a bad call, and it wasn’t just about Daisy.”
“What else was it about?” I pressed.
“He stumbled onto a shipment. A big one—not the kind you walk away from whistling. He got the damn Feds involved.” He paused, his eyes searching mine as if he’d told me too much.
“Look, this doesn’t concern you. You’re safe.
Your father wouldn’t let anything happen to the two of you. That’s what matters.”
His words offered little comfort. “Safe,” I repeated, “or just kept in the dark?”
“Don’t get cute. You know the score. This life? It protects you as much as it binds you.”
“Protects me from what?” I wondered. “The truth? From the blood on my family’s hands?”
“There’s no blood on your hands, just a little too much curiosity for your own good.”
I scoffed. “Yeah. Well, curious or not, I’ll be needing a ride. Now and next Friday, apparently.”
“I can drive you in a few hours. What’s the deal with next Friday?”
A few hours? I slumped over dramatically. “Dinner at the marina. My mother’s trying to pawn me off. Haven’t you heard?”
He laughed. “No, but I’ve heard of the ones that didn’t work out.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I have bad luck.”
“I’d say the men had it worse, kiddo. At least you still have a beating heart. Can’t say the same about Derik or Simon.”
Poor guys.
“Beating, sure, but it’s wrapped in barbed wire.”
“Dramatic, Rose, as always.”