Chapter 8
Casey
Natalie’s dead. And it’s my fault.
I don’t know how. I’m aware on some level that I’m probably just torturing myself for no reason. But I can’t shake this feeling.
My best friend was stabbed in the chest, and somehow, I’m to blame.
It’s just survivor’s guilt or something like it. But I keep coming back to that over and over. Natalie’s dead. It’s my fault. She’s gone, and I’m the reason. Over and over, my head a storm of ugly, bitter sadness, the kind of mourning that feels like it’s tearing me to pieces.
She was such a good person. Loud, outgoing, the center of every room, the magnet that brought every group together. Natalie kept me sane for years. She’s been my cheerleader, my sounding board, my best friend and my everything.
I wanted to be half as bright as she was.
Now she’s gone and I don’t know what to do. I can’t move or think right. I want to call her and talk to her so badly it’s like a hand around my throat.
She didn’t deserve this.
Declan brings me tea. He sits with me and makes me drink it.
We don’t talk, and I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.
Instead, his presence is enough. It doesn’t take the pain away, but it grounds me at least. I manage to get the tea down and the warmth brings some life back to me.
I lie curled up in the blanket, my head in Declan’s lap as he lightly strokes my back and hair, and I don’t even know why I’m comfortable doing this.
A little over a day ago, I wasn’t even allowed to use his first name.
I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, it’s pitch black in the room.
I’m still on the couch. I look around in a panic, only to find Declan’s sitting at my feet now, propped up in the corner of the couch.
There’s a pillow under my head and another blanket on top of me.
He’s breathing slowly and must be asleep.
That calms me down.
He could’ve gone upstairs to his bed. Instead, he stayed with me when he didn’t have to.
I don’t wake up again until there’s light burning in through the windows.
The smell gets me first. It’s warm coffee and a bit of sweetness. I remember that smell from the first time I stayed over Declan’s place. Whatever he brews fills the whole apartment with the most incredible scent. I stare at the ceiling, breathing it in, still groggy. I smile for a second.
Until I remember why I’m here.
Natalie’s dead.
“Are you waking up? I hear you stirring.”
That voice. I frown to myself in confusion and lift my head up.
Aunt Sheila is sitting at the kitchen table.
Which makes no sense. Why would she be in Declan’s apartment? I think I’m still dreaming for a minute, but Sheila is still there and watching me. Finally, I push myself to a sitting position.
“What’s going on?”
“I was waiting for you.” Sheila stretches. She’s got a coffee at her elbow. “Hungry? Want something to drink?”
“Did Declan call you here?”
She nods and flips her glasses down from her hair. There’s a big album in front of her. It looks like the old photo book from the den back home, but why would she bring that?
“I was going to rush over last night, but he made me stay home until this morning. He said you needed some time to rest.”
“He called you? How did he have your number?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that right now.” She gets up with a sigh. “Let me make you some espresso. You need to wake up a little bit.”
“Where’s Declan right now?”
“Out dealing with the police. He told me to make sure you understood that his family would handle everything. You’ll be fine.”
Last night comes slamming back. The blood on the floor. Natalie’s body on the bed. The knife in her chest.
“She’s dead,” I whisper, tears starting again. I swallow them back, but it’s like trying to stop a flood with a single pebble. “I don’t understand why.”
“I know, Casey, I know.” She comes to me then and wraps me in a hug.
Sheila has never been very warm. I don’t think she ever wanted kids, but she took me in anyway when my parents died.
We’re close, and she’s as much a mother to me as my actual mother was, but she’s just not very emotionally open.
She’s been a great guardian and she’s always given me whatever I could ask for, but it’s unusual to get a hug from her.
I hold that embrace for as long as I can until she finally lets me go.
“I don’t even know what to do,” I confess and sit down at the table.
Sheila brews the espresso. I didn’t know she could do that. When it’s finished, she brings it over. “Drink,” she orders. “You need to wake up a little bit. We have some things to talk about.”
I stare at her and terror grabs me. “Am I in trouble? Declan said I wouldn’t be, but—”
“No, it’s not about Natalie. It’s about your parents.”
That makes zero sense. I sip the coffee and it’s surprisingly good. Sheila has always been a Folgers kind of lady, and it’s strange to find out she knows how to use an espresso machine.
“What do my parents have to do with any of this?” I finally ask.
“You have to understand. Your parents had secrets. They told me things. They gave me things, made me promise—” She flips open the photo book.
I’ve looked through it a dozen times before.
They’re mostly images of my parents from when they were younger up through their wedding.
The plastic covering is sticky in places and yellowing all over, but Sheila finds one particular image and points it out.
It’s of their wedding. It’s one of my favorites. Mom’s in her dress, looking young and beautiful, and Dad’s holding her against him. They’re having a dance. All around them are good-looking people dressed up, laughing and clapping, frozen in that moment forever.
“This man is Lockie Deasley. He’s dead now.
” She’s pointing at a handsome man in the foreground, mostly in profile.
Her finger moves to another man, this one square and tough-looking.
“This is Cosimo Falanga. Well-known street tough for the Castagna Famiglia. And this over here is Dante Castagna, son of the Castagna Don. They’re both dead.
The Castagna Famiglia fell apart a few years after this picture was taken. ”
I stare at her, trying to make sense of what she’s saying through the mush of my grief-ruined brain. “My parents had gangsters at their wedding?”
She keeps pointing at people. “This is Fintan Discoll. He’s still around, actually. He worked for your parents for years. A good mechanic these days. An even better car thief back then.”
“Why did my parents work with a car thief? What do you mean, they had secrets?”
“This one’s Grigori Zharkov. Your mom used to complain bitterly about him.
Real asshole. But high up in the Zharkov Bratva.
They were killed off during an ugly war eight years ago, and most of the survivors disappeared to Russia, or at least that’s what I heard.
Who knows. I think there are maybe five more dead people in this photo, excluding your parents, and all of them met a violent end. ”
I push the photo book away, staring at her. Anger rushes through me. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Your parents were connected in ways I never told you about. I knew you’d have to hear the truth about them sooner or later, but I hoped it would be under better circumstances. Now though…” She trails off with a bitter sigh and stares at the picture like she’s lost in memory.
“Sheila. Please. What are you talking about? My parents were connected, how?”
“They ran an organization. Some people would call it a crime family, but it was more like a gang. Your father, Joshua Brennan, was the boss. Your mother, Maeve, was his second-in-command. Those two were a real terror back in the day.”
My heart’s racing. Sweat dribbles down my back. “My parents were criminals?”
“Don’t ask me exactly what they were up to. I barely talked to my sister when she was alive, and I hated that husband of hers.” Her nose wrinkles. “He was the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”
“I thought you liked my parents.”
“I loved my sister. I tolerated her husband. But there’s a lot you don’t know, Casey.”
I rub my face with both hands and leap to my feet. “Please stop. I can’t handle a history lesson right now.”
“I wish I could.” Sheila sighs and moves her glasses up into her hair again. “But Declan told me it’s time you heard some of this.”
“Declan? What’s he got to do with my parents? How do you know him, Sheila?”
She stares at me, her face quiet and still. I know that look well. She’s trying to remain calm as I start to spiral. It’s the way she used to watch me when I was an emotional teenager losing my mind over something stupid.
“You were told that your parents died in an accident. That’s only partially true.”
I stop moving. My mouth opens in outrage, but I’m so upset and shaking that I can’t make any noise. Instead, I grip the back of a chair.
Sheila nudges my coffee toward me. “Take a sip.”
I do it, even though I don’t want to. Getting something warm in my stomach helps.
“What really happened to my parents, Sheila?”
She holds my gaze, unflinching and hard.
“They were killed.”
I take a step back. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was. The story about the car accident is somewhat true. They were murdered in their car. Riddled with bullets and burned to a crisp.”
“Stop it.”
“Their killer was never found, but he’s been presumed dead for years. I don’t know the details of exactly what happened between them, and I never wanted to ask. But Declan found this last night at Natalie’s apartment.”
Sheila pushes a piece of paper across the table toward me.
My hand is shaking. I stare down at the note.
My name’s written in very neat, perfectly formed letters.
“What the hell is that?”
“Declan believes Natalie’s killer left it.”
“Why does it have my name?”
“Open it, please.”
I don’t move. I’m trembling all over. Natalie was murdered. My parents were gangsters, and they were murdered too.
Now there’s a note with my name on it, and the killer left it at a crime scene.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper.
“Be strong, Casey. We’re nearly at the point. Please, open it.”
Slowly, I reach down and unfold the page. Inside is a message, written in that same handwriting.
I read it out loud. “The past is never dead. Senesi.” I look up at Sheila. “Who the hell is Senesi and what does this mean?”
She fumbles with her glasses again. “We believe Vincenzo Senesi is the man who killed your parents. And now Declan is afraid he’s back.”
I sink down into my chair. I stare at the note, totally numb. “I didn’t see this.”
“You were in shock last night. I doubt you noticed much.”
She’s got a point. The memory of Natalie’s apartment is already a blur.
“You’re telling me… this really was my fault?”
Sheila reaches out. She grabs my hand fiercely. “Absolutely not. That is not what anyone is saying, and don’t you dare start thinking it. You’re completely innocent in all this. You’re a victim too, Casey.”
“I’m not dead though. Natalie’s the one who got murdered.”
“You had nothing to do with it and it’s not remotely your fault. If this Senesi is the one who did it, then he’s the one to blame. Not you. Never you. Do you hear me?” Her voice is firm and she tightens her grip on my hands. “Tell me you understand.”
I nod numbly. “Why did he kill my parents?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, releasing my hand. “I don’t have all the details. Just pieces.”
“Where’s Declan?”
“He should be back shortly.” Her voice softens and she leans in closer. “Casey… did he give you a ring yesterday?”
I pull back sharply. My mouth goes dry. Panic slams into me. “How do you know about that?”
She grimaces and looks pained. “I guessed. Can I see it?”
I almost forgot about the ring. With shaking fingers, I take it from my pocket.
“It’s nice,” she says with a long sigh. “Listen to me now. I won’t be able to say any of this again.”
“What’s going on, Sheila?”
“There’s a lot you don’t understand. There’s so much you don’t know, and I can’t say anything. Your mother made me promise. And he’ll know if I do, and then…” She trails off, looking over her shoulder, and I swear she seems afraid. “If he asked you to marry him, then our time is almost up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He might be your only chance right now, Casey. Do you hear me? I know Declan can be difficult and harsh. I know he’s even terrifying.
But he’s powerful. His family is like yours, except even stronger and bigger.
He might be your only shot. And if you’re smart, if you play this right, you can get things from him. You can get concessions—”
I yank my hands back. “You sound insane. This is crazy.”
“Negotiate. But don’t walk away. Trust me, I know you’ll be afraid when you hear it all, but—”
The front door opens. Sheila stops midsentence, her mouth wide with horror, and I watch as she quickly gets herself under control.
I feel sick. I don’t know what she’s talking about. But the look she gives me next makes me keep my mouth shut.
She stares at me like, if you say a word about what I just said, we’re both dead.
Declan comes into the room.