Chapter 35
Lily
Wednesday. The day of my mother’s anticipated open house.
Dad left for work this morning before the sun had risen. When I asked Mom about it over breakfast, she said she knew nothing and brushed off the topic as she called for Jane to get out of bed.
The first half hour of being awake felt normal as I sent Dean a text over breakfast, asking how last night went. I didn’t think much about him not responding right away until I wondered if Dad's leaving early meant something else.
As I headed upstairs to get ready for work, I called Seb. He was at the meeting too, so he was bound to know if anything happened.
“I haven’t heard from him since last night,” Seb said, putting the call on loudspeaker so Kira could join. “I could drop by his place if you want?”
“Could you?”
“Maybe he broke his phone,” Kira joked gently, referring to Seb’s mishap from weeks ago.
I smiled a little but didn’t feel completely convinced. “Maybe… I need to get ready for work. Talk soon.”
Another hour later, I stood before the bathroom mirror, anxious and overstimulated from being back at my family home — living with Mom again felt like winding back several years of extremely slow confidence building.
I was reminded of the reason why I wanted out to begin with.
It was suffocating, more so than at work.
At work, it was only a few hours of the day where I barely talked to Mom anyway.
But in her house was a whole other level of sanity challenging.
Take the conversation over breakfast about my hair, for example. She was adamant about bringing me to a salon, no matter how many times I said I didn’t want it cut shorter.
So, with that discussion adding to my anxiety, I locked myself in the bathroom for a moment of peace.
I stared at myself a second longer and then straightened. “Fuck it.”
I yanked open the top drawer below the basin and grabbed a pair of scissors and a comb. I might regret it later, but I needed to do something I could control.
Settling myself with a few breaths, I combed my hair and brought several strands in front of my face. I picked up the scissors next and got to work, snipping the golden-brown waves hanging across my face into soft bangs.
Cutting my hair might not have been the most rebellious act of protest in the history of protests, but it felt great. Possibly better than when I brought Dean to a conservative family barbeque — in hindsight, that was pretty fucking great too.
It was safe to say my mother did not approve of my new hairstyle when I finally emerged from the upstairs bathroom.
She spotted me from where she waited in the kitchen, and her mouth dropped open, about to protest my new look before she snapped her mouth shut again and stormed by me on her way to the front door.
Jane walked by next, and she grinned at my hair. “I love it.”
“Thanks.” I adjusted the freshly cut strands as I stole a glance towards the front door as our mother walked outside. “So begins the silent treatment.”
“At least you won’t have to talk to her now,” Jane shrugged, adjusting the strap of her school bag across her shoulder.
Under her arm was a textbook for the Italian classes she was taking — classes Dean had offered to help with before my father intervened with the threat of arrest, prison, and his mother’s deportation…
I felt the urge to scream, but opted against it since Jane was still in front of me. Mom would be all too happy to race back into the house and announce that dating a tattooed bad boy was the reason why I suddenly flew off the rails and cut my hair.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she blamed my stomachache on Dean too.
I tried to keep busy, creating small talk with potential clients and handing out fliers as I stood in the kitchen of the recently renovated two-story home in South Bay Ridge. All the while, my mind was on my phone. I kept checking it, expecting a text from Dean, but found none.
At least none from him.
A text from Seb woke my lock screen.
Seb: Sofia said he never came home last night. I’ll check in with the garage.
Chewing my nail, I braced my forearms on the stone counter. Its cool surface sent a chill through my body as I opened my phone contacts and tapped Dean’s number.
As the call rang out, my eyes drifted to the entry hall of the house, where a large archway opened up the interior. I could see straight to the front door, where my mother was greeting two new potential buyers.
My stomach suddenly dropped at the sight of them. Of him.
Gabriele wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, under a sapphire blue dress vest. Gold jewelry decorated his fingers, wrists, and neck, and his auburn hair was combed back neatly. The closely shaved edges made his features sharper.
He removed his sunglasses as he looked up at the high ceiling that my mother had pointed out.
The man beside him, who I’m pretty sure was a bodyguard, did the same.
When she encouraged them to look around and pointed them in the direction of the kitchen, I swiped up my things and promptly headed for the stairs.
Which meant walking part of the way directly at him, and then making a sharp turn right.
I pretended I was busy looking through the applications on my clipboard as I hurried up the stairs, playing the part of a fussy real estate assistant while I hid my face behind my hair.
Maybe the bangs would throw him off. Still, the last thing I needed was him finding out where I worked, in turn discovering my last name.
Just as I reached the landing, I released a breath but faltered when an Italian accented, “Excuse me, signora?” followed me up the staircase.
I pretended not to hear him and hurried down the hallway as he took to the stairs.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
I ducked into the first bedroom on my left and contemplated going out the window, but settled for the conjoining bathroom instead. A great feature for any family home. For now, it was my lifesaver.
Right when I closed the bathroom door, Gabriele stopped at the bedroom door.
He had seen me, barely.
I rushed to the next bedroom, flicked the lock on the second bathroom door, and quietly closed it behind me before hurrying across to the next bedroom’s door. I peeked out into the hallway as my heart pounded.
To get back downstairs meant passing the first bedroom again.
When the locked handle on the bathroom door rattled but failed to open, I took off in a quiet jog to the stairs, trying not to roll my ankle as my heeled shoes sank into the plush, cream carpet that lined the hallway.
Once I was downstairs, passing Gabriele’s bodyguard, I composed myself and headed straight to Mom.
“I need to charge my phone. In the car,” I said quickly and politely, picking up her keys from where they rested on a side table with her bag.
The arrival of more potential clients for her to win over saved me from the no forming on her lips, and I escaped the house to go hide in the Volvo.
I wasn’t sitting in the car long before Gabriele and his partner stepped out of the house too, reapplying their sunglasses as they scanned the street.
As if the universe wanted to add more to this terrifying coincidence, they started walking directly towards the Volvo.
I shifted lower in my seat, despite the tinted windows hiding me well enough, and quickly opened the camera on my phone.
I snapped as many photos as possible as they went by the windshield to cross the street.
All the while, they took their time as they discussed something that clearly had nothing to do with the house.
I decided to film them instead.
“…Look into hospital records. Her name could be there if she’s lived here long enough,” Gabriele said to the man with him.
“Yes, boss.”
“We’re going to tear his empire apart,” Gabriele continued, fishing out his phone as it rang, “Brick by brick, bone by bone, until there is nothing left but the inheritance he owes my sisters and me— Salve, Lucia.” His demeanor completely changed from irritated bad guy to a caring young man in an instant after he answered his phone.
I wondered if Lucia was one of the sisters he was talking about.
“Unfortunately, the house isn’t really to our taste. Just wait until we get our money. We can shop bigger. Better.” His accent rolled rhythmically over every vowel and consonant.
He continued crossing the street, taking the conversation with him.
I stopped recording and instead took photos of his car — a black Chrysler, driven by the man with him. I made sure to get several photos of the license plate too.
Lumping the images and video into one message, I forwarded them to Dad along with a text.
Me: I know I shouldn’t get involved, but one of your suspects showed up to work today.
Once the message was loaded, I waited for his reply. Only to be left on read.
“Really?” I muttered.
Before long, the open house was wrapped up, and we headed back to the office, signage and leftover applications in hand.
The latter only added to my mother’s growing irritation as she continued her silent treatment, huffing and muttering to herself about the lack of people showing up to the open house.
Truthfully, I wasn’t bothered that she refused to talk to me. I was anxious to speak with Dad, to see if he had any answers about Dean’s whereabouts. So, when we got back to the real estate agency and Mom went straight to her office, I didn’t stay long.
I let Candice, my fellow receptionist, know where I was going and left without waiting for her response.
When I arrived at the organized crime units building and was told to wait outside my father’s office — a familiar scene — I tried not to pay attention to the guns strapped to everyone’s hips this time. I was too distracted anyway with questions racing through my head.