33. Maeve
CHAPTER 33
MAEVE
I’m shaking from head to toe, and I go to the restroom to gather my thoughts. I slip the necklace into my bag, not trusting myself to put it on right now, but it still feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I stop by the sink, taking a deep breath and leaning over the cold marble under my hands. I don’t want to cry. I look too beautiful to cry.
“Maeve,” a familiar aristocratic voice makes me jump.
I sniff and straighten up. “Oh, Aunt Maura, hi.”
I slide a hand under my eyes as I turn to her. She’s dressed in a conservative blue gown with intricate lace. It’s not my thing, but I can’t deny she always looks great. Her expression is a practiced one. She manages to convey so much with the twist to her mouth.
“I like your dress, Aunt Maura.” I try to break the tension when I see she’s not saying anything else. The compliment fails to wipe the sneer off her face, but it does get a response.
“And you’re disgraceful. You need to leave.”
“Leave?” I’m confused for a second.
She looks from one side to the other as if the magazines are waiting inside the trash can to catch her saying something unseemly.
“And take that criminal of yours before someone recognizes him.”
“Oh god.” I shake my head and look back at my reflection.
Aunt Maura was always a little sad, just as stuck up as the rest of her family, but not important like my dad. Much like me, she’s just a daughter, so she never had a chance with the family business. My grandfather made sure she married well, and by married well, he meant an absolute pig who had a lot of money and even more mistresses. She’s the image of a perfect Sinclair, and for the first time, I realize that not only do I not fit but I never wanted to.
“Your dad has been through too much already,” she continues. “He doesn’t need you doing this.”
“What has he been through exactly? Cheating on my mother before she passed or kicking Angie to the curb because she was sick? No, I’m staying a little longer.” I don’t even want to be here, but I’m not getting tossed away by her like this.
She makes a face like she’s physically swallowing my words one by one. For a moment, I think she might spit it all back at me and start a scene, but she’s too classy for that. I’m not, though.
“I told Cornelius you were going to get lost the second he moved that whore Angela inside his house. It’s sad to see how right I was. You’re so misguided I’m not sure if it’s sad or disgusting.”
She doesn’t look sad. I can tell the words tasted sweet coming out of her mouth, and she wants to see me break as another treat.
“Funny, I was wondering the same thing about you.” She gasps as she literally clutches her pearls.
“Too bad she didn’t die before she could ruin our family.”
She thinks she knows me. There’s nothing to worry or think too hard over with Maeve. She’s simple, misguided if anything. She’s wrong, though. There’s also this side of me that steals cars and fucks crime lords nicknamed Cygnus.
That’s the version of me that comes to the surface and slaps my aunt right in her face. The noise of my hand making contact with her cheek echoes in the restroom, making the whole situation even more satisfying. My palm stings, my aunt gasps, and I leave her behind as I head out the way I came.
I find Diego leaning against the bar with whiskey in his hand. Sliding up next to him, I can’t help my smug smile, and he regards me distrustfully. I take his drink and finish in one gulp. He arches an eyebrow, but I shake my head.
“I just met Aunt Maura in the restroom.”
He nods, understanding and he turns to the barman and orders two whiskeys. I take my tumbler, not even caring it burns all the way down.
“Anything I should be concerned about?”
I shake my head. “No. She’s a bitch.”
“No shit,” Diego agrees.
“That bitch starved me so many times.” I huff. “Fucking awful parties and no food.”
Diego swirls his whiskey around, his eyes glued on me. “Don’t worry, Maeve, you eat plenty of rebellious shit now.”
“I’ll eat a cake and throw darts at her face.” I doubled down.
“What did she say to you?”
I roll my eyes at the idea of telling him. There’s no way he would accept something like that being said about his mom, and there’s no way he would consider a slap enough payment.
“No, thanks. I’m not in the mood to watch another gutting.” I wince the moment the words are out of my mouth. “Jesus, I’m making jokes about that.”
“One single gutting and you’re already desensitized.”
I giggle, and he chuckles, but I’m really not. There’s still so much left to process and the spot in my memory feels vaguely numb when I push at it, but I’m so happy to be with him right now. I’m happy I slapped my bitch aunt, and what he said about choices is starting to make me optimistic. My whole world lights up, and I look at him, smiling in front of me casually for the first time in years and sharing an inside joke. It’s pretty fucked up that it’s a murder, though.
We stay side by side, watching the people we don’t respect eat and drink. I don’t ask what we are doing here, and he doesn’t ask about my decision about the necklace. Mostly, my family ignores me, making the night easier to digest. It’s past time, and I’m planning to beg Diego to stop for a burger when my dad finds us.
I feel his disgust before I even see him. The weight of his disapproval signaled in my blood. Every bit of self confidence I’ve gotten smashes in his proximity, because I know he can see me and my tattoo.
“Leave,” he says quickly, with a big fake smile on his face, looking around not to attract curious eyes.
“I’m okay here?—”
“Don’t talk to her.” Diego interrupts. “Don’t look at her.”
He spits the words with violence. I’m taken aback and look at him, seeking clarification, but he’s watching my dad with danger in his eyes.
“I’ll talk to my daughter whenever I think I should.”
Diego moves just a little, a half of a step, but he’s so much taller than Dad, and I watch my father flinch with satisfaction.
“If I were you, I’d think twice before talking about my wife, Mr. Sinclair. I’m not scared to feed your tongue to the sewer rats.”
Dad is visibly shaking now. “Is that a threat? I can call the police, young man.”
“No need.” Diego’s eyes are fixed on the door. “I did that already.”
Right as he speaks, sirens blare and the doors burst open. An army of police officers descends over the ball, pointing guns and shouting orders. Women are cleared and pointed toward the door, but the men are detained. They’re looking for someone in particular. My mouth drops open, the sea of gorgeous ball gowns and tuxedos interrupted by tactical gear, guns, batons, and crowd busters. What the hell did they expect at the Sinclair Gala?
Dad looks over his shoulder, realizing what’s happening, and rather than looking concerned, he’s pissed. How typical of my father. It’s not until they’re surrounding us that he shows real response, and it’s satisfaction. Despite what Diego said, he thinks they’re here for me and my husband.
“My apologies, but this is a private event. You’ll have to come back for her later.” He looks toward me like he’s already planning how to leverage needing a lawyer against me to force me back in line.
“Are you Cornelius Sinclair?” the officer asks.
His brow creases briefly, but he’s too used to his name meaning power to worry about why he’s asking. Dad smiles—usually does when his name is mentioned. “Yes, yes, I am.”
“You have the right to remain silent…” The cop before us begins reading my father his Miranda rights, and finally, his expression changes.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, but the police officer continues to speak, removing the handcuffs from his pocket. My father struggles for a moment, but when the cop gives him a hard shove, he allows him to put the handcuffs on.
“Trafficking, racketeering, embezzling, fraud…” The list goes on and on.
Once my father is in cuffs, they lead him out of the event, and the last thing I see of him before he goes is a murderous glare in both of our directions.
Once he’s taken out, the multitude of police shepherd us from the party. My eyes keep going to my family at the front. Their expressions are varied levels of pissed off and embarrassed, and their ears are glued to the phone, calling their army of lawyers, no doubt.
“Nothing is going to work,” Diego tells me as if we are talking about the weather. “I collected enough evidence. They’ve already frozen his assets. Hell, the vendors from this party will need a court order to get paid. The lawyers won’t work for free. He has nothing left.” He laughs.
We wait with the rest of the crowd at the front. This will be in every newspaper tomorrow, and all those pictures they snapped of us will be featured. All the photographers Dad made sure to invite are now vultures picking over the remains of one of his worst and most vulnerable moments.
“What happened to gutting?” I ask. “You could have killed him.”
I don’t want him to kill my father, no. My feelings are too complicated to be ended by death, but I want to understand why someone who isn’t averse to violence would choose this path. Diego’s eyes burn with excitement as he watches my family fret over where their drivers have all gone.
“Death is freedom. It’s not good enough. He’ll die slowly and penniless, just like my mother.”
He watches beside me for another second before he makes his way to his car. I feel naked without him dragging me along, telling me to follow.
“You’re wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“He won’t die like your mother. She was loved. She left a legacy of kindness and beauty. She died with her only child beside her. He won’t.”
He smiles at that, and I think he knows my choice is made.
Aunt Maura shrieks at someone on the phone, but after the slap, she’s having a tough day. I don’t know if it’s a lawyer or anyone trying to help, but she’s losing her cool. I could go over to her, help and hope they learn to be a family now that we have no money, but she’s a fucking bitch, and I owe her nothing.
I open my bag, take out my mother-in-law’s arrow necklace, and put it around my neck before making my way to my husband’s car.