CHAPTER ONE
MATTEO
December
“I’m expecting your parents to mount a legal challenge to your inheritance,” my lawyer was saying, flipping some papers over on his big, polished desk. “I’ve already drafted a response.”
I couldn’t help grinning at that. “They’ll probably wait until the last minute to do it.”
“Of course. All is fair in law and war,” he said, his eyes blazing as if he were looking forward to the fight. “They don’t have a legal leg to stand on, so anything they do throw at us will just be fodder to delay the inevitable outcome.”
Mr. Leander Salvatore of Kensington, Salvatore, and Associates, was far too attractive to be a lawyer, in my opinion.
With golden undertones of classic mediterranean skin, perfectly cut bone structure, and a habit of filling out his expensive suits like shrink wrap, he deserved to be on the cover of a modeling magazine.
But I wasn’t here to ogle him. Besides being disgustingly hot, he was one of the top estate lawyers in the country.
There was a reason my grandmother had chosen him to handle my inheritance–because he had a fierce reputation of being a pit bull in court.
“I’ve also taken the liberty to devise a response should they challenge your mental faculties,” he added and sat back against his cherry-leather chair, the city of Chicago looming behind him as if he were a monarch standing over his subjects. “Which, of course, we are expecting them to do.”
I blew out a breath and switched to my favorite sequence in “Lacrimosa”. “Will I have to have a psychological evaluation?”
“Possibly, but we will deal with that when the time comes. I’ve included a provision in which you agree to speak with a counselor on a weekly basis for two years. I figure it is a minor inconvenience if it means receiving what you’re due.”
Flipping my eyes to him, I took in the entirety of his dove-gray suit, from the Brioni tie, to the pearl cufflinks, remembering what it felt like to have silk and wool against my skin.
That seemed like a lifetime ago, when in reality it had only been three years.
I’d gotten used to the feel of cheap cotton and denim and the heaviness of dirt and oil on my skin.
I longed for the early winter mornings in the living room of my grandmother’s house.
I’d be dressed in khakis and a wool vest over the softest button-down, the sweet notes of Debussy and Liszt streaming out from the grand piano.
I’d lost hours there, the morning melting into afternoon, the weekdays blending into the weekend, and the years of my childhood slipping away.
It was a shadow of a memory now and sometimes I wasn’t sure those simple and beautiful days had ever existed at all.
I’d had to grow up faster than most kids, which was why I was here, talking to the lawyer my grandmother had entrusted to handle my inheritance.
“I don’t want you to worry about it,” he continued. “They might delay the process, but they're grasping at straws. In this case, I’m Goliath, and in my work, Goliath wins. Every time. There is a reason your grandmother personally selected me to take care of this.”
My fingers stilled over the leather, the music cutting off in my mind. I missed my Nana every minute of every day. I thought after seven years, the pain of losing the one person who truly loved me would lessen, but it hadn’t. I need you, Nana.
He must have sensed my sullen mood because he leaned over the desk and folded his hands under his chin.
“Look. You have five more months until you’re twenty-one and then you’ll never have to speak or look at them ever again.
I need you to continue being a good boy by staying out of trouble and continuing to prove that you’re mentally fit–”
“I always was,” I cut in, my throat dry and itchy. “And any problems I had are their fault.”
“I know that. But it was never beyond your parents to twist the truth,” he said. “In any case, keep doing what you're doing. You just need to hold out a little longer, okay?”
I nodded with a sigh. I wished I’d emancipated myself from my parents, but they’d manipulated and isolated me, and twisted my thoughts into thinking I was the problem. By the time I was eighteen, it was too late to go that route.
“Are you still working at the grill?” he inquired, shuffling papers again.
“Yes,” I lied, but lying came easily when you had parents like mine.
The fibs had started off as little inconsequential lies such as telling them I’d studied my bible for two hours, when in reality it had been an hour and a half.
Later, the dishonesty had grown in proportion to my parent’s disapproval.
I’d learned quickly to never talk back, always do what I was told, and never talk to them about my feelings.
So lying to Mr. Salvatore had come easily.
It wasn’t my fault the grill was doing poorly and had to scale back.
“Okay, good. Keep it up. When your parents do decide to challenge your mental faculties, showing proof of work history adds a notch on your belt. Save any pay stubs and deposits you might have.”
“Anything else?” I asked, wanting to get off the misery train.
“I think that’s it for now. I’ll see you next month.”
I got up from the leather chair, stretched, and shrugged into my beat-up backpack.
As I was walking out the door, he said, “And keep your phone nearby. Once the ball starts rolling, it’s going to roll fast.”
I said goodbye to Wanita, the law secretary at the desk, who had always been nice to me and offered me the remainder of the morning donuts, then headed into the elevator. On the way down, I finished off the last of a jelly donut, a spring of hope chiming in my mind like the heaven chord.
Five more months, a few hops through some hoops, and I was free.
The elevator dumped me on the first floor of the Willis tower, and I proceeded to wait at the closest bus stop. It was chilly out, the December air near the lake nipping at my exposed nose and ears.
While I waited, I fished out today's newspaper and circled prospective jobs. Most were high-end career starters requiring specific degrees and I figured it would be best to walk into the nearest McDonalds. I’d never found much work in the wanted ads, but I liked to keep my options open.
I wasn’t above flipping burgers and my only expenses were two-hundred dollars a month on a bed I rented, fifty bucks for my prepaid cell phone, and food money, which with the cost of ramen and chicken nuggets, wasn’t that much.
A minimum wage job had always been enough to tide me over until I received my inheritance.
The bus arrived and I claimed my seat at the back.
While it took me toward the west side of the city, I closed my eyes and tapped on my knee in tune to Chopin’s “raindrop”.
My mood had always dictated my preference of music and like the first rains of spring to help the flowers bloom, hope filled me for the first time in three years.
I’d hit rock bottom, and there was nowhere to go but up. Things can only get better, right?
I got off at my stop and walked the two blocks over to the apartment building where I rented my bed. As I neared, the cluster of police vehicles and vans labeled with ‘department of housing’ washed away that hope.
I flagged down a police officer. “What’s going on?”
“The building has been condemned,” he said and motioned to a woman with a clipboard.
“Sir, do you live here?” she asked.
“Ah, I used to, apparently.”
I gave her all my information and she jotted it down on the clipboard. “Okay, if you can provide us with a valid lease and proof of the previous month’s rent payment, we will help you find temporary housing in the meantime.”
“I don’t have one, I’ve been renting a bed from one of the tenants,” I said, the jelly donut souring in my stomach.
She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and offered me a blank expression as if this job had sucked out the last of her joy. “Unfortunately, the program only extends to those with valid leases. There is a shelter a few miles down. I’m sure one of these nice police officers can drive you.”
I blinked at her, hearing what she’d said, but unable to form much of a response. “What about my stuff?”
“I’ll have someone accompany you to collect your belongings,” she said on her way to gather someone else’s information.
I glanced at the cop standing next to me. He huffed and led me into the building and up to the room. I stuffed my clothes into a duffle bag. I didn’t have much besides a few pairs of clothes and basic toiletries. The most important things I owned were in my backpack.
When I was outside again, I hugged my duffle close to my chest, the swarm of activity making me feel like I’d wandered into a hornet’s nest.
I’d been on my own since I was seventeen and eleven months.
For the last three years, I’d slept on a stained mattress in a dilapidated building, working in restaurants as a busboy or as a janitor to keep myself dry and fed.
I’d lost my job last week due to cutbacks, and I was likely settling in for the battle of my life against those that were supposed to have loved me.
Now, I'd lost my bed in the middle of winter. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse, right?
As I stared at the clusterfuck of scrambling tenants and bored public servants, my throat tickled. A little voice reminded me, things can always get worse.