7. The Ties that Bind
The Ties that Bind
Evelyn
T he meeting hall smells like burnt coffee and despair. It clings to the peeling walls and lingers in the corners, a constant reminder of the struggles we all bear. Each deep breath I take is weighted, as if the stale air is saturated with the unspoken pain of those gathered here.
I push through the heavy wooden door, my feet heavy with dread as I make my way to the refreshment table. Same stale cookies. Same watered-down coffee. Same faces wearing carefully constructed masks of “I’m fine” that crack a little more each week.
“Eve!” Lydia waves from her usual spot, her blonde hair bouncing as she gestures me over. She’s already claimed three chairs in the circle, saving spots for our little group.
I grab a Styrofoam cup and pour myself some coffee, more out of habit than desire. The liquid is almost transparent and will taste like warm dishwater, but it gives my hands something to do.
“You’re late.” Olivia appears beside me, reaching for a cookie. Her designer scarf probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“Traffic.” I don’t mention I sat in my car for fifteen minutes debating whether to come in at all while Eli sat in the car next to me. He’s been following me all day, and I hate it.
Almost as much as I hate these meetings. They help, but some days everyone’s shared trauma is suffocating.
“Besides,” I add, giving Olivia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Today is all about you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She offers me a faint smile. She’s not excited about this any more than I was when it was my time.
We gather our meager refreshments and join Lydia in the circle. She’s wearing her favorite tortoise print cat-eye glasses today with a high collar shirt that buttons up her neck. The combination makes her look like a 1950s librarian.
“How’s Leo?” Lydia asks, genuine concern in her hazel eyes.
“Better.” I stir my coffee, watching the liquid swirl. “No more incidents with other kids. The nightmares aren’t as frequent now either.”
“Time helps,” Olivia says softly, her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around her own cup. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it will.”
The familiar ache in my chest tightens. We’re all here for different reasons, but the pain that brought us together is the same. Different flavors of the same poison.
The meeting facilitator starts arranging chairs, signaling we’re about to begin. Around us, other women drift to their seats, carrying their own cups of terrible coffee and wearing their own careful masks.
Once everyone is in their seats, the facilitator gets us started with a brief introduction, then she turns the floor to Olivia. Olivia stands, brushes her hand down her blouse and adjusts the scarf around her neck. She’s nervous, and I can’t say I blame her.
“I never thought I’d end up in a place like this, but I’m guessing we’ve all said or thought that.
” Olivia’s voice wavers as she speaks to the circle.
Her fingers twist the Hermes scarf around her neck—a nervous habit I’ve noticed.
“But this next part is probably unique to me.” She looks down at the cup of coffee in her hands and sighs.
“My father arranged my marriage. I never really connected with Vinny, but that didn’t matter.
I had no choice. He seemed charming at first, but… ”
She trails off, eyes still glued to the inside of her coffee cup. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under her eyes, highlighting the remnants of old bruises that makeup can’t quite hide.
“He started with little things,” she continues. “Controlling what I wore. Who I talked to. Then came the accusations—I was flirting with his associates, disrespecting him in front of the family. The first time he hit me, I convinced myself it was my fault. We’d only been married a week.”
My stomach churns. I know this story. We all do, in our own ways. Different men, same pattern.
“The beatings got worse. Black eyes. Cracked ribs.” Olivia’s voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“He’d apologize afterward, buy me expensive gifts.
But then something would set him off again.
One night, he came home drunk, paranoid that I was going to leave him. He wrapped his hands around my throat—”
Her fingers drift to her neck, touching the silk scarf. Now I understand why she always wears them.
“I thought I was going to die.” Tears slip down her cheeks. “Vinny pushed further and further with each beating.”
I reach for Olivia’s hand, squeezing it gently as she continues her story. Her fingers tremble in mine, but she doesn’t pull away. On her other side, Lydia leans closer, offering silent support.
“Getting permission to leave wasn’t easy,” Olivia says, her voice steadier now. “You see, I was born into a life of organized crime. I had no say over my future. I had to go directly to the head of the leading family himself.”
My breath catches. This is the part of her story I’ve never heard.
She has to mean Nicolo Moretti—the head of the New York crime family.
The revelation sits heavy in my gut. All this time, I’d known Olivia came from money, but I never imagined she was connected to one of the most notorious crime families in the country.
It all makes sense now. Why Zeke was angry when she showed up and how she knows him.
“Nicolo was—” She covers her mouth and squeezes her eyes closed. “Shit, I shouldn’t say his name.”
“It’s okay,” the facilitator says. “This is a safe space.”
Olivia nods and takes a deep breath. “He was surprisingly understanding.” Olivia’s fingers tighten around mine.
“He’d known Vinny was unstable, had seen the signs.
When I showed him the bruises, the most recent cut on my neck, told him about the threats …
he gave his blessing for the divorce. Said no woman in his organization should suffer like that. ”
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Her usual confident demeanor cracks further, revealing the scared woman beneath.
“But getting Nicolo’s permission was only the beginning,” she continues. “I knew I had to leave New York. Vinny has … connections. People who would do anything he asked. I was granted permission to come here—to Columbus.”
My detective brain kicks into overdrive, piecing together all the little things I’d noticed but never questioned—her designer clothes, her careful way of watching exits, how she never talks about her past in New York. It all makes sense now.
Lydia reaches across, bringing our circle of support closer. “You’re safe here,” she whispers, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice. She’s thinking what I am—how deep does this go? How safe is anyone when the mafia is involved?
“We’ve got you,” I add, meaning every word despite the chill running down my spine. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”
Olivia takes her seat, and the next person gets up to share. I know I should be paying attention but my mind wanders in a different direction—hyper-focused on Olivia’s truth. She’s a mafia princess, and I had no idea.
After the meeting wraps up, I pull Olivia aside as others file out of the room. The stale coffee sits heavy in my stomach, rolling with questions I can’t ignore.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I keep my voice low, though we’re mostly alone now. Only Lydia lingers nearby, pretending to study the bulletin board while obviously eavesdropping.
Olivia’s perfectly shaped eyebrows arch. “Tell you what? That I was married to a monster? Pretty sure that’s why we’re all here.”
“About your connection to the Moretti family.” The words come out sharper than intended. My detective instincts are screaming, years of training making it impossible to just let this go.
Her face hardens, jaw clenched. “Because you’re a cop.” She adjusts her scarf again. “I didn’t want you looking at me like you are right now—like I’m some kind of criminal.”
“I don’t think—”
“Yes, you do.” She cuts me off, voice trembling. “I can see it in your eyes. That analytical look, like you’re trying to piece together evidence. But I never did anything illegal, Eve. I was born into that world. That wasn’t my choice.”
Shame floods through me. She’s right—I am analyzing her, categorizing her connection to one of the most notorious crime families in the country. Force of habit, maybe, but that doesn’t make it right.
“But leaving?” Olivia continues, fingers still working at her scarf. “Fighting for my life? That was my choice. The first real choice I ever made for myself.”
The tremor in her voice hits me hard, reminding me that before she’s anything else—mafia princess, ex-wife, survivor—she’s my friend. Someone who held my hand through my own dark days after Ryan.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” She interrupts again, but gentler this time. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Shit.” The word scorches my throat. I reach for Olivia, pulling her into a tight hug. Her expensive perfume tickles my nose—something floral and definitely out of my price range. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. I’m being a total ass.”
She stiffens for a moment before melting into the embrace. Her shoulders shake slightly, and I feel dampness against my neck where her face presses.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, voice thick with tears. “I know it’s a lot to process. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but…”
“But I’m a cop.” Guilt twists in my gut. “And I just proved exactly why you were right to hesitate.”
Her arms tighten around me. “You’re my friend first. That’s what matters.”
“Group hug!” Lydia’s voice breaks through the moment as she wraps her arms around both of us. Her glasses dig into my shoulder, but I don’t mind. “No more secrets between us, okay?”
Olivia laughs against my neck. “No more secrets.”
“I love you both,” I murmur, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”