Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lukas
My back hurts from all the flash tats I did in a few hours and my shoulders are tighter than a teacher’s last nerve on the Friday before break. Waverly and I talked mostly while I was supposed to be eating lunch. She was so excited about her new life plan.
I wish I was there in person to see the excitement on her face. The phone isn’t enough. I want her in my arms. Only a few more days, and then I’m home with her.
The ugly flower design on the hallway carpet makes me dizzy as I trudge toward my room. My bag slides down my arm as I fight with my hotel key—yellow light, yellow light, finally green. I push the door with my shoulder, and my bag drops to the floor with an echoing thud in the quiet space. Two more steps in, and I flick on the lights.
To find that I am not alone.
Four middle-aged men sit around my hotel room, looking like they’ve been plucked straight out of a mob movie, but if it was set entirely during a backyard barbecue. There’s a Latino man, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows revealing faded black tattoos snaking up his forearms. He glares at me from the armchair next to the air conditioner, which is noisily clunking away. A light-haired Eastern European man is sitting across from him, not bothering to pry his attention from his phone, leaning against the desk. I recognize the music and sound effects coming from it. He’s on level seventy-nine of Ice Cream Bubble Pop Princess—I beat that level three weeks ago. A smaller man in a black suit, no less intimidating despite his size, leans against the window, casting a long shadow across the room. The final man—the one commanding the most attention— stands in the center of the room in gray pants and a navy-blue button-down shirt. His hair is graying at the roots, and instead of giving him a frail effect, it actually intensifies the ominous glower on his face.
“Who are you?” I bellow. When I receive no response, I follow up with the ever-popular, “How did you get in here?”
The Eastern European man huffs a little, but the others give no verbal answer. The men communicate through a series of eye glances and subtle hand gestures before the man on my bed finally speaks. “I’d like to know what your intentions are with my daughter?”
My stomach drops. “Mr. McCleod?” Then it clicks. These men are the leaders of the Four Families. The heads of four major crime families are crammed into my hotel room, and all I can think is, did I remember to pick up my underwear off the bathroom floor. I left the do not disturb sign up for a reason.
“Do you do this to everyone who’s interested in Waverly?” I ask.
Mr. Mcleod stands and squares off with me. “None of the others broke my little girl’s heart like you did.” He rolls his shoulders back and steps into my space, his cologne overpowering the faint scent of old men in the room. “No one else thought it would be a good idea to have a secret relationship with her since she was a teenager, either.”
“H-how did you know?” Did Waverly tell him? That Uri guy? Was I being followed?
Mr. Mcleod narrows his eyes. “I noticed it back when Wave was seventeen. Every summer in the beginning of June, she would break up with whoever she was talking to and spend every weekend at Angie’s house. At first, I didn’t think much of it, until I saw you were doing the same thing.”
I repeat the only relevant question: “How?”
“I follow you online.”
I would notice if my ex-girlfriend’s mob boss father followed me on Insta. “No, you don’t.”
Mr. Mcleod takes a step back. “I’m a twenty-five-year-old nursing student named Mandy who has a rescue cat named Marvin and likes all your tattoo posts.”
“Oh, I don’t follow anyone back who I don’t know in real life, sorry.”
Mr. Mcleod’s eyebrow twitches, his disappointment and annoyance displayed on his face like a billboard. “I became aware when you didn’t even say congratulations when she got into nursing school.” His voice gets louder with each word.
I’m so confused. All the questions keep butting against each other. I don’t understand what’s happening.
The shorter man leaning against the window calls out with an accent, “Why do you have a fake profile of a nursing student?”
Mr. Mcleod takes a deep breath in. His nostrils flare. “Well, when Shae was six, Amanda Chase was doing this viral contest for her biggest fans. You needed to like her posts or something, and you would get a code. I created an account, but I felt weird using my real information.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Mandy gets a disturbing amount of dick pics in her DMs.”
The Latino man raises his shaggy eyebrow. “How many is she getting? One is a ‘disturbing amount.’”
“Poor Mandy gets at least three a week.”
The European man says, “To be a woman in this modern age, no wonder they all pick the bear.”
The men shake their heads like an Olympic synchronized swimming team of disappointment.
But then Mcleod whips around back to me. “Yeah, because of pieces of shit like you. Do you have any idea who we are?”
“I’m assuming the heads of the Four Families?”
The shorter Italian man says, “I’m Giovanni, boss of the Italian Mafia.”
“Oh, you’re Izzy’s dad, right?”
He clears his throat and points to the men in the chairs. “This is Andrey Kolso, Uri’s father, Russian Mob. The other guy is Carlos Ramos, head of the Mexican Cartel. And Waverly is our niece. We don’t like when someone fucks around with her.”
“And as a father, I’ll break anyone who hurts my little girl.” Mcleod’s eyes narrow. “I’ve had my men watching you for years. Every month, one of them walks into your shop and gets a tattoo. I make sure they’re in your chair for at least four hours, getting as much dirt on you as possible.”
“What did they come back with?” I don’t have any secrets, no crimes. I’m super boring.
He gets in my face again. “Nothing but a whole bunch of really cool tattoos.”
Carlos, the Mexican dad, squishes his face. “How much do you charge an hour?”
“Two-fifty,” I say.
“Damn, I should’ve learned how to draw.”
I turn to Mr. Mcleod. “Your grand plan was to support my small business with sixty grand over five years?”
Giovanni shakes his head. “Nah, it’s way more. My guys are there all the time. They’re jealous the Irish Mob has better tattoos than they do.”
My phone vibrates in my shirt pocket. Ignore it.
“Well, it wouldn’t be an issue if Uri had finished the job,” Mr. Mcleod snaps.
My phone buzzes three more times in rapid succession. “Um, he said he was sick and was scared about getting an ear infection,” I say as I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out my phone.
The other men collectively say, “Ohhhhhh.” There are mumblings of “That makes sense” and “Poor kid, that was horrible.” But I’m not really focused on them. Instead, I’m trying to comprehend what I’m reading.
Kyle: What the hell? He proposed?
What? Who?
Darren: The guy would do anything to get back into her good graces.
Kyle: He stole Angie’s moment.
Darren: What did Waverly do?
WHOA. What? What does Waverly have to do with any of this? My other room companions start to mumble, and I hear Uri’s dad say, “Is he okay?”
But I’m too busy typing.
Me: Back the fuck up, what happened?
The dots bounce on my screen.
Kyle: Adam proposed to Waverly at the bridal brunch.
“WHAT!” My heart tries to make a hasty retreat out of my chest. My vision blurs, and ringing is coming from somewhere in the back of my head.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. “You good, son?”
A slow shake of my head betrays my thoughts.
Me: What did she say?
Why am I asking him? I should know already. We talked for like a half hour this afternoon. Why didn’t she say anything?
“Sit down,” Mr. Mcleod says and ushers me toward the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Adam proposed to Waverly,” I mumble, and it ignites a flurry of fatherly fury around the hotel room.
Various “What the hells?” and “He didn’t fucking ask permission!” and “Who the hell does he think he is?” fly over my head as I try to get my shit together.
Kyle: According to my sister, Waverly left the brunch, and Adam was escorted out.
Darren: Did she leave with him?
Kyle: No. My sister saw Waverly walking around outside.
None of these are the answers I need. “I’m calling her, shut up!” If it was a different situation, I would be more careful with my words when talking to mob bosses, but Waverly was proposed to and I’ve got to do something.
Her chipper voice slices through me. “Hey!”
“HE FUCKING PROPOSED TO YOU!” The words echo around the room. Even the other men pause their violent gestures and turn to me.
I can see her flinch on the screen. Shit, she doesn’t like to be yelled at. She regroups and asks, “Do you want notes on how not to propose to someone? Because Adam could teach a masterclass on it.”
“Why am I finding out about this now?”
She shrugs. “Because we were talking about the inn and you had questions about The Nights of Knight , and that was more important than Adam.”
Waverly was very excited to answer all my questions, but that can’t possibly be the reason she didn’t tell me. I start pacing around the room and lean against a wall. Too much pent up energy to sit. “What did you say?” The question comes out like an angry plea.
She squishes her face and side-eyes me. “I said no.”
The camera moves a lot as she vanishes from the screen, then she’s back and I can tell she’s laying on her bed. “Have you ever made a choice and the instant you could correct it, you think, ‘Yep, good call, self.’ Well, I’ve never been more certain dumping Adam was the right thing. Three years together and he couldn’t figure out I hate big displays of affection and ugly flowers. He didn’t deduce asking me in front of his whole family was only going to result in a no.”
My head rests against the wall like it’s being held by magnets. “There’s no other reason why?”
She’s quiet. “I’m happier since we broke up than I have been in six years. I’d say that’s a pretty good reason not to get back together.”
“You’re happy?”
“I miss you, but I don’t miss him. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m me. Or, I’m at least who I’m supposed to be.”
“Good.” I mean, what else can I say?
She plays with her hair between her fingers for a second. “So, since you got all miffy because I didn’t tell you about the non-event with your brother, I guess I should let you know I ran into one of his scummy Ivy League friends a few days ago. Oh shit, I told him Adam would have to do something big to win me back. Yeah, okay. Now everything makes sense.”
A million alarm bells go off in my head and I start glancing around the room for my suitcase. “I’m coming home.”
“Why? I’m fine. And you still have two days left at your convention. Stay, have fun.”
“I don’t like the idea of Adam’s friends hanging around you.”
Waverly blushes and shakes her head. “I’m fine and totally safe. I’m staying at Alana’s place and,” she lowers her voice to a whisper and says, “I think she might be an assassin. But it’s super cute that you’re worried.”
“Of course I’m worried. Jesus, who wouldn’t be worried about you?”
“Adam, apparently,” she mumbles. “Hey, there’s a three hour time difference and I’m kinda exhausted.”
I nod. “Yeah, triple check you locked the doors and sleep well. Text me when you wake up.”
“Miss you,” she says way too fast.
“Miss you, too.” But she’s already hung up.
I walk back to the bed and flop down. Grabbing one of the hotel pillows, I throw it over my head and scream. Why is the tiny woman causing me so much fucking stress? And why do I miss her as much as I do.
There’s a knock at my door and I hear men jump to their feet. “Oh, my food is here,” Carlos says.
“You ordered food?” Giovanni asks incredulously.
Carlos answers, “I didn’t know how long it was going to take for him to get back from the convention.”
Andery asks, “Did you order enough for all of us?”
“Do you think I’m some sort of a monster?” Carlos retorts.
What has my life turned into?
The pillow is ripped from my face and Mr. Mcleod reminds me, “You never said what your intentions are with my daughter.”
I groan. “I don’t know. Everything is still new, and clearly we need to work on our communication skills. Because if things didn’t get all fucked up five years ago, I probably would’ve been proposing instead of Adam.”
The room stills.
Cracking my eyes open, three of the men are huddled over a bag of food, frozen in place, eyes wide, staring at me.
Mr. Mcleod remains unmoved, his face unreadable. “And what makes you say that?”
I shrug, it seems obvious. “She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
There’s a squeak from one of the men, and the Italian uncle starts hitting the Russian, all three have smiles of various degrees. Duncan McCleod crosses the room and snatches the bag out of the man’s hand and offers it to me. “Have some dinner.”
Giovanni digs his fork into his fried rice, his brows furrowed as he reads something on his cellphone. “Duncan, your math isn’t mathing. Amanda Chase’s digital scavenger hunt thing was eight years ago, so Shae would’ve been three years old.”
The men pause mid-bite. Carlos smirks. “Are you an Amanda Chase fan?”
Duncan pushes his hair back and snaps, “Shut up. Her music makes me feel things.”
Giovanni nods. “Damn, those songs about Kiki feels like my soul has been ripped out of my chest and put into a blender.” He takes another bite of his rice and some falls on his tie. “And her latest album is a fucking masterpiece.”
We eat in silence until Carlos decides to go through my swag bag. “I like to see what people give away. Maybe there a toy in there for my granddaughter.”
He tosses a bunch of promo postcards on my bed and I start going through them. One shop’s name is too big and the print quality sucks. Most of them are pretty awful—the font is too small, or the main image is too complex. One shop in Boston has really fucking stupid hours… My heart stops. I know this art style. I spent hours trying to cover it up.
“Holy shit! I know who gave Waverly her shitty tattoo!”
Andrey has an egg roll halfway to his mouth, “Waverly has a tattoo?”
Ten minutes later we’re in a dive bar a few blocks away from the convention where that artist and his fans are hanging out. Jerry, or The Sloth, is sitting with his back to the bar. He’s a mid-level artist at best; his line work is too thick and his shading lacks depth.
I slap him on his shoulder. “Hey, you got a minute?”
He takes one look at me and turns away. “Go to hell, man,” he says, and lifts his glass to his lips.
Mr. Mcleod grabs the glass and pours it on The Sloth’s lap. The Sloth jumps up and yells, “Fuck…” but stops the second he sees Mr. Mcleod.
Everything about these four men changes. Goofy and harmless minutes ago, now their faces are hardened, knuckles white, and the lines around their eyes yell to the room, “We’ve seen and done some shit.”
The head of the Russian mob grabs The Sloth by the neck and drags him out the side door. Nobody in the bar stops to help The Sloth. Whatever is about to happen, no one wants any part of it.
In the back alley, The Sloth is pinned to the brick wall. I scroll through my phone until I find Waverly’s abomination, smash it against the tip of his nose, and say, “This is your work.” No question, just a statement.
He squints his eyes and then backs up. “Shit. Yeah, I remember that one. Two guys brought this girl in. She was fucking wasted, could barely talk.”
She wasn’t wasted. She was drugged.
“Why did you give her the tattoo if she couldn’t consent or sign the paperwork?”
This is gross and negligible.
“The squirrely piece of shit she was with said she was fine.”
Adam forced her to get that tattoo.
“It was the other guy who freaked me out,” he continues. “Had that creepy-ass I’ve got bodies in my basement vibe. He insisted on branding her.”
My fist makes impact faster than I can think. Branding her?! I’m about to throw another one, when a heavy hand slams down on my shoulder, stopping me.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Mcleod says with an eerie, quiet calmness.
Giovanni says, “Anything else you can recall?”
“He had a birthmark on his hand. I remember because I figured with a dick birthmark, middle school must’ve been his villain origin story.” The Sloth spits out some blood and coughs. “Yeah, he wanted a hidden message inside the picture. Letters V and D and a bug.”
What a fucking jackass. “It was an ant, not a bug.”
Mr. Mcleod squeezes my shoulder. “You’re done here. Walk away and don’t look back.”
I’m sick leaving the alley, more sick when I hear The Sloth’s cries. I’m not a part of this criminal world, but I’ve lived adjacent to it long enough to know when it’s time to leave. The shame Waverly felt over that tattoo, now it’s done. It’s all be rectified.