Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
ANDIE
“ Welcome home, Alexandria .”
I hate the way my name drips from his lips like poison. I’m not touching the guys, but I am close enough to feel all three of them stiffen when my father speaks my name.
“Maximillian,” I greet him in return.
His face darkens with a scowl. Using his full first name was one of my small rebellions as a teenager, and I’m happy to see that it still irritates the shit out of him.
My father grips the balcony balustrade until his knuckles turn white, his eyes never leaving mine as we both try to assert dominance over the other. He should’ve realized after I carved out my own flesh in front of him that I am not the same Alexandria he used to control. I won’t obey and jump at his command anymore, terrified of the repercussions if I didn’t. The young girl who used to cower before him and beg is gone. I buried that weak bitch along with my brother.
“We need to discuss what happened at the cabin. Have Dom’s men been able to identify any of the remains?” Keane asks my father, breaking our standoff.
Remains . The bodies that had bullets in them would now be burnt to a crisp and unrecognizable. There were more masked men than the three we disposed of, weren’t there? Jax said five, but there could’ve been more. Did they make it out of the burning house?
“Not in front of her.” My father gives a small flick of the wrist and four men with guns appear from both sides of us.
Even though Keane says nothing, I notice the small step he takes toward me when the men approach.
“Take her to her room,” my father instructs them.
My instincts are screaming at me to reach around Jax and pull his knife out, then shove it into the nearest suited man’s throat before hurling it at my father.
A guard comes up behind me, gripping my arm, but I don’t fight his rough hold. I could easily extricate myself from his grasp if I wanted to and then twist his arm, just so, to break it in three separate places.
Head held high, I glare at my father. “I passed your stupid initiation tests. I’ve proven that I am as good—no, I’ve proven that I am better —than Kellan ever could be.”
The words are like acid on my tongue. I don’t mean any of them.
I’m back home. I’m back in my father’s domain. It’s time to start maneuvering the chess pieces and enact my newly revised plan for revenge.
“Your chance to prove yourself comes soon,” my father states coldly.
A muscle ticks in Rafe’s jaw, and Jax takes out his knife, flipping it between his fingers. I don’t like their reaction to my father’s statement. Something’s up.
“My office. Now,” Max commands Keane, Jax, and Rafe like dogs, ignoring me and turning on his heel to disappear from view.
I’m pissed at being so casually dismissed once again by my father like I don’t matter.
Rafe touches my side, a small, possessive placement of his hand on my hip. It’s a touch of reassurance, but I take no comfort in it.
How the hell did things get so complicated? It’s as if my life is an Etch-A-Sketch and it’s being manipulated by a kid who’s spinning the two white knobs haphazardly. The picture being created by thin, gray lines is one jumbled, confusing mess.
I watch the guys as they ascend the stairs two at a time. I’m shoved, none too gently, by the man behind me toward the right set of stairs that will lead to the east wing where my and Kellan’s bedrooms are located.
Once at the top, I’m forced to walk down the long hallway. Framed paintings and wall sconces adorn the walls. Inset niches display white marble sculptures of busts and naked Roman men and women. My father has a thing for old Roman emperors and over the years he has procured several authentic pieces off the black market; pieces that were stolen from historic sites or museums that he now boldly displays out in the open. As we pass by door after door, I notice that none of the rooms have changed on the inside. My mother named each bedroom and guest suite in the house after a flower and decorated them accordingly. Other than the two rooms that are mine and Kellan’s, this wing of the mansion houses the Rose Room, the Bird of Paradise Room, the Amaryllis Room, and the Orchid Room.
As we approach the end of the hallway, I tell the men, “I can take it from here.”
I hesitantly walk inside my old bedroom, closing and locking the door as soon as I enter. Instantly, I feel suffocated, the air sickly sweet and hard to breathe from one of those plug-in air fresheners. Going over to the window, I throw open the heavy curtains to allow the sunlight to brighten the room, hoping it will help chase away some of the ghosts that I know still haunt here. I won’t be able to open the window to allow in some fresh air because it’s one of those windows with no latch.
My eyes clench tightly shut as I will the memories not to come. The replica room at the compound was macabre enough but being back in the real thing has my heart rate pounding in my chest. Facing the bed, I drop down on my hands and knees and reach under it. Another thing I used to do as a teenager, other than sneaking out of the house, was to hide things.
With careful fingers, I feel around the underside of the box springs. My index finger finds a small slit cut into the thin fabric. Bingo . The cell phone and charging cable I had stashed there may be old, but it should still work once I plug it in and charge it up. It was a pay-as-you-go phone with lifetime credits that should have kept rolling over every month and had no expiration date.
I take the phone and cable out and walk into the closet where I know there’ll be an electric outlet located at the back on the lower wall. I plug the phone in and wait. After ten minutes, I press and hold the power button to turn it on and send up a silent hallelujah when the screen boots up and goes to a logo.
No signal. I groan in frustration. Doing a search for Wi-Fi signals, I find one that isn’t secured that I’m able to piggyback off of, thanking whatever idiot didn’t password protect their account.
Hitting the small icon for text messaging, I enter the number I want and begin typing.
Me: This is GirlUpHigh. Plans have changed. Will explain later. I’m back home.
After another couple of minutes and no reply, my hope that I can contact Tessa falters. I guess the phone doesn’t work after all. Damn it. I unplug it and turn it off, then return the items back to their secret hiding place.
I need a cell phone. A real one that is untraceable. Maybe Uncle Dom will give me one.
Alright, Andie. Think. First thing’s first. I walk into the adjoining ensuite and hastily strip off my clothes. Seeing all the blood and other stuff I’m not going to take the time to categorize, I cringe at the thought that I’ve been wearing them for who knows how many hours now. I refuse to glance in the mirror, already knowing the horrific collage of bruises and cuts I’ll see if I do. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just go through the motions. Tackle one problem at a time.
Wrenching the handle on the shower to allow the water time to heat up, I rummage through the lower vanity cabinet and find my old travel bag of care products. Perfect.
As steam fogs the room, I step inside the shower and stand under the spray, letting the hot water do its magic on my abused body. Every place on my skin that is raw, burns where the water touches it. I’m in enough discomfort, so I make the shower a quick one, allowing a little extra time to scrub my hair clean, avoiding the large, sore knot at the back of my skull.
Using a towel that I find rolled up on a shelf in the corner to dry myself off, I wrap it around my torso, securing it under my armpits, and walk out of the bathroom
There’s a light knocking on my bedroom door. When I open it, my mouth about drops to the floor.
“Holy shit!” Rita exclaims when she sees me. “You look like a bad Michael Myers’ movie.”
I stare dumbfounded at my cousin. Rita is Uncle Dom’s only granddaughter and a year younger than me. Standing side by side, we couldn’t be more different in appearances. Whereas I was born with straight, blonde hair and light violet eyes, Rita had curly, midnight black hair and milk chocolate eyes. Uncle Dom used to call us his sun and moon.
Growing up, we were as thick as thieves, being the only two girls our age in a very male-dominated family. Well, we were, until I started secretly seeing Rafe. I didn’t know she had a crush on him. I found out after I confided in her one night—the day after Rafe and I slept together for the first time. After that point, Rita barely spoke to me, and I haven’t heard from her at all since I left. So, seeing her standing in my doorway now has me stupefied.
“What are you doing here?”
Like the mafia princess she is, she barrels past me and into my room like she owns the place. She looks elegant in the coral silk wrap-dress she’s wearing. With three-inch Gucci strap sandals, she and I are now the same height. Around her neck are thin gold chains, so delicate, they look like they were crafted from silk threads. The diamonds in her ears, the multiple rings on her fingers, and the bracelet she’s wearing must be over ten carats total. Her skin is a sun-kissed bronze, her make-up on point. I have to admit, she’s right. I must look like the remains left over from a gruesome murder. Then again, I haven’t lived the pampered life she has.
“Heard you were back,” is all she says as she rifles through my old clothes in the closet.
Unless Rita was already here at the house, it makes no sense she would know that I’m back because we literally just arrived.
“I’m not going to be able to fit in any of my old stuff,” I tell her.
Her laughter is light and tinkling but condescending at the same time. “You look to be the same size, if a little more” —she stops and turns around, making the universal sign for big-boobed by grabbing her own ‘girls’ and squeezing.
I peer down at myself. I guess I am a bit bigger up top now than I was at fifteen.
“You going to tell me what truck ran you over, because girl, you’re sporting more black-and-blue than the three Hookah Butterfly cocktails I had last night.”
She hands me a pair of dress slacks and a powder blue blouse, then she pushes me none too gently into the bathroom to change.
Not going to lie, but the clothes are a tight fit. When did my ass get so round? Piling my damp hair on top of my head, I secure it with a clip I find in one of the vanity drawers.
Walking out, I find her sitting on my bed, legs crossed, and her arms propped back behind her. In a weird sort of way, I’ve missed her. Growing up, Rita was my only friend who was a girl. If I was being honest, Rita was my only friend, other than Kellan. When she ghosted me, it hurt. I guess we’re, what—frenemies now?
I tick off on my fingers. “Let’s see. I’ve been kidnapped, shot at, stabbed, thrown in a pit, punched, almost kidnapped again after having a bomb dropped on the house, and?—”
“You’re fucking with me!”
She dissolves into a fit of laughter, but I don’t see anything funny about it. As suddenly as she started, she stops.
“You surely do live an interesting life.”
I’m not going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Leaning back against the wall, I ask her, “What’s been going on with you?”
Her perfectly red-painted lips smile broadly at me. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
I nod in agreement. Is she not going to say anything about Kellan? You would think that would be one of the first things out of her mouth. Some form of condolence or platitude about his passing. A “hey, I’m sorry for your loss” kind of thing. Kellan was her cousin, but he was my brother.
“Well, I do have some good news to share,” she comments a little too brightly, holding up her left hand to show me the huge diamond on her ring finger. It’s a teardrop-shaped yellow diamond with smaller round diamonds on either side of a white gold or platinum band.
“You’re getting married?” I feign interest.
Marriages in our family used to be old school—as in, they were arranged between families in order to secure ties and alliances. Luckily, that archaic practice ended with my grandfather after he took control of the family many, many years ago. Even my father married a woman outside of la famiglia and the family business. Mom was a strawberry-blonde, green-eyed woman of Irish descent, the daughter of the McCarthy clan from Boston. Seeing as I despise both of my parents, I’m glad I don’t look like either of them. Kellan looked more like Mom in the face, but he had our father’s dark hair and brown eyes.
“I am,” Rita happily replies, wiggling her hand back and forth so the light hits her diamond ring just so.
And then she completely stuns the crap out of me when she adds, “To Rafael.”