Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
ANDIE
My body refuses to move because every muscle feels like it’s been pummeled by a sledgehammer. I’m stiff and achy from the tips of my hair all the way down to my toenails. My throat is raw and stings when I try to swallow, and I have the mother of all headaches. Waking slowly and in small increments, I slit one eye open, then the other, and am jolted awake by Kellan. He’s lying beside me, staring at me with white, unseeing eyes clouded over by death.
“Good morning, Tinker Bell.”
I startle, pushing up to a sitting position, which is a huge mistake. Fuck . Grabbing my head with both hands, I groan loudly. Flashes of memories strobe behind my clenched eyelids. Rafe. An explosion. Masked men. Jax. Gunfire. The house burning down. Keane. I can still smell the fire, ash, and smoke. Taste it, too. It sticks to every cell, has seeped into every pore. Remembering the disgusting state of my hair matted with blood and pieces of the man’s brain, I finally allow my eyelids to fully open, hoping I can get to a bathroom and scald myself under a hot shower until my skin peels off.
The room is painted in dim light filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling window. Everything seems unfamiliar at first, and it’s hard to get my bearings. What time is it? It must be sometime in the morning. My stomach growls to remind me that I never finished eating dinner. I came straight back to my room after leaving the dining room and locked myself inside. I needed space and some time alone to think. Might as well get up now and grab something to eat while it’s quiet.
Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I grab the hoodie I found in my chest of drawers and slip it on over my tank top. Looking down at my bare feet, I whine when the chipped state of my last pedicure mocks me, the metallic deep purple nail polish on my toenails peeling off. It’s the one feminine pleasure I allow myself. Something to remind me that I still have a bit of soft inside all the hard. I should have some old nail polish somewhere and will give myself a pedicure later.
Stumbling to the bedroom door, I yank it open. I expect to find men stationed outside my bedroom, but the coast is clear.
Barefoot, I silently pad out into the hallway and am immediately greeted with what smells like baked apples and cinnamon. My stomach rumbles at the delicious aroma. I beeline for the stairs and head straight for the source of the food. I also need coffee.
Stopping to study a trio of framed photographs hanging above a crystal vase sitting atop a narrow side table, I lean over to sniff the artfully arranged fragrant floral arrangement of white gardenias and green succulents. The images in the photographs display a time-lapse of the sun setting over the water. The left one is at sunrise, the middle is of high noon, and the third is at sunset. It’s amazing how you never really pay attention to all the different colors in the sky at various times of the day. Morning is filled with pale yellows and pinks as the sun makes its first appearance along the horizon. Midday is full of the aquamarine blue sky with a dusting of fat, puffy cumulous clouds, and sunset at dusk is fiery reds and oranges. The pictures remind me of the ones I saw in Keane’s room.
I get to the end of the hallway and descend the stairs. The stairs have carpet running down the middle that feels good beneath my feet. My toes curl into the softness of the carpet threads. It’s a habit I acquired after Kellan and I watched Die Hard .
On my way to the kitchen, I pass by several guards and a few staff members. I ignore the guards, but I greet the staff with a polite “good morning.” I don’t see or hear the guys or my father, so I continue to follow the smell of baked goods.
“Good morning, Miss Rossi.”
“Good morning,” I say to the guard who just spoke.
I don’t trust these men. They work for my father. I know he has ordered them to watch me closely and make sure I don’t try to leave while he’s away.
The guard is young and tall, jet-black hair on an angular face, and wide shoulders that taper to a lean waist. The sunlight coming in from the windows at the front of the house catch the faint blue and purple hues of the strands of his hair. I notice with interest that his eyes are as black as his hair.
“I’m Matteo.”
I don’t fucking care. I cross my arms over my chest, and I’m surprised he doesn’t ogle my pushed-up tits.
His full-body smile transforms his youngish face into what I would refer to as sex-on-a-stick.
“Is my father still here?” I ask him.
“No, ma’am. He left an hour ago.”
Matteo gives me one long perusal of consideration. “You look nothing like I imagined.”
Warning bells immediately start going off in my head, and I back up a step, taking a defensive stance.
“Whoa,” Matteo says lightly. “Relax, Tinker Bell.”
In disbelief, I stutter, “What did you just call me?”
“Kellan used to talk about you.”
What the hell? “You knew my brother?”
Matteo gives me another one of his wide, heart-stopping smiles, twin dimples popping out. His tanned skin and dark hair make me think his family lineage is Mediterranean, more than likely Italian. But there’s also a hint of something exotic that resembles images of soldiers from ancient Persia I once saw in a history book.
“I did.”
Before I can interrogate him more, he holds up a finger and presses a button on the earpiece in his right ear. “Have a good day,” he tells me and walks off.
I will make sure to find Matteo later. I want to ask him more about Kellan.
The house has two kitchens. One that is personal for family use only, and a larger, industrial one where Max’s personal chefs and their staff prepare all the meals. The family kitchen has a huge butcher block counter island and cream-colored cabinetry. Copper pots hang from a steel cage mounted above the island. The appliances are all stainless steel and polished to a high shine. The backsplash is made of varying sizes of interlocking stone in shades of slate blue, pale blue, and charcoal gray.
Kellan and I would spend a lot of time in this kitchen. He taught me how to cook and bake here. For a young guy, Kellan was an excellent cook. Nana was his teacher. She died when I was really young, so I never had those types of life experiences with her that Kellan got to enjoy.
Entering the kitchen, my eyes zero in on the source of the mouth-watering aroma that’s filling the house—a plate of apple-cinnamon scones has been left out on the counter next to the double ovens. Greedily, I grab two, one in each hand.
With my father away from the house for a couple of days, I should be able to figure out a way to avoid the guards and snoop around. Gather what information I can find, so that I can use it against him.
Taking a bite of the still-warm pastry, I moan at how good it is as the tart apple and smoky spice hit my palette—and then I start coughing up the food when a tiny voice asks me, “Who are you?”
Light brown eyes surrounded by a mass of curly brown hair look up at me. Holy shit. It’s a kid. Where the fuck did a goddamn kid come from? I drop the scones back onto the plate and frantically look around the kitchen, then back down at the little girl. Her big, wide eyes haven’t blinked once as she stares up at me, and I feel my blood freeze. She shouldn’t be here. Not here. Not in this house. With him .
Her little finger points at me. “Your face looks weird.”
My pulse is pounding a rapid staccato that makes me almost lightheaded. Then what she says punctures through the shock of finding a small girl materialize right in front of me. I must look like a monster to her with my bruised and swollen face and purple-mottled skin.
Who are her parents? Where is the adult that should be watching her? Is she one of the staff’s kids? My vision darts around the room again before I slowly and carefully drop down on my haunches until I’m at her eye level. I don’t want to scare her more than she probably already is with finding a stranger who looks like death warmed over in the kitchen. But she doesn’t look scared. She looks intrigued.
My throat constricts when she reaches out and touches my cheek. Her small hand begins to explore as she pokes at each and every sore bruise and cut. I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from vocalizing the agony her prodding finger is causing.
My heart painfully slams into my ribcage when she brings her finger to her lips and kisses it, then touches the scabbed area of my split lip.
“Papa says my kisses make his boo-boos all better.”
Her voice is like the tinkling of a music box. Sweet and melodic. Her speech is adorable with how she pronounces her l’s as w’s. She smiles at me, and it takes my breath away. Dressed in a pink pajama onesie with booted feet, the little girl pulls the hood of her onesie up over her head, revealing a unicorn face with glitter blue eyes and a sparkly rainbow horn. From the way she talks and how big she is, I’d put her at around four, maybe five years old.
“Sweetheart, where’s your papa?” I ask her.
Her tiny face lowers and is hidden within the hood of her onesie. “He’s dead.”
Jesus . Good going, Andie. Make the kid sad and feel like shit.
“Where’s your mommy?”
Her voice is quiet, and her angelic face scrunches up when she answers, “I don’t have a mommy.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I battle them back.
“Do you have someone who looks after you?”
She nods yes. Oh, thank God.
“Meribella,” she whispers, but it comes out as Mehwibehwa .
“Can you take me to her?”
She nods yes again and reaches out to take my hand. I’m amazed at the instant trust she gives me. I look down at her hand in mine. Hers is so delicate and small, her skin pale and unmarked. Innocent. An intense wave of protectiveness bursts forth when I wrap my fingers around hers.
Standing up, I keep her tucked closely to my side.
“Can you tell me your name? My name is Andie.”
She looks up at me again with those big brown eyes.
“Sarah! What are you doing in here? You know better.”
The little girl responds instantly and squeals, “Unkie Wafe!”
She jerks her hand out of mine and runs over to him. Rafe picks her up and tosses her high into the air. Her peels of giggles are like a knife eviscerating my heart, slicing pieces of it off. He and I spent many nights lying on the grass at the local park, looking up at the stars. We would talk about running away together, getting married, and starting our own family. Those nights when I was able to sneak out and escape my prison of a home were filled with the dreams of a young, na?ve girl in love. Rafe and I would spend hours talking, and touching, and kissing. He used to be my safe place from all the horror I endured at my father’s hands. Everywhere my father had touched me and hurt me, Rafe would erase those memories with his gentle caresses and soft kisses, until all I felt was him.
Sarah starts talking in rapid-fire Spanish, pointing at me. Rafe smiles at her, and I look away. I thought I had fallen into Alice’s rabbit hole the other day, but that has nothing on how confused and discombobulated I’m feeling now.
I jump when Sarah squeals again. “Unkie Keane!” She holds her arms out just as Keane cautiously walks into the kitchen, his eyes focused on me and not her. His jaw is locked rigid, and he looks pissed.
Tearing his gaze away, his entire face transforms when he places a kiss to Sarah’s cheek and tickles her under her chin. I’m pretty sure my jaw drops open as I watch two stone-cold killers act so playful and loving to a little girl. She wiggles in Rafe’s arms, her laughter increasing as she eats up all the attention that she’s getting from them.
My mouth draws down in confusion when I realize that she called both men Uncle. I look at the girl again. Really look at her. The shape of her eyes. The roundness of her face. The dimple in her left cheek. Her crooked smile that tilts up more on the left side. The way her ears poke out a fraction more at the top. I recognize those features.
“Andie,” Keane says, and if eyes could spontaneously combust someone, Keane would be charred remains right now.
Rage and desolation. Two warring emotions that consume me. “Whose kid is she?”
But I already know the answer. I know it in my bones. I know it in a way that makes my stomach lurch, and what’s left of my soul wither into nothingness.
“Kellan’s.”
My brother’s name passes from Keane’s lips. Sarah is Kellan’s. Sarah is mine. My niece. Blood leeches from my face and it blanches of all color as I stare at the girl. She’s all pure sweetness, smiling so happily at Rafe as he holds her in his arms.
No. Fuck no! A heavy cold seeps deep into my bone marrow.
Unbidden memories rush forth, a horror show of when I was her age, innocent and carefree. Until my father ruined me. Stop crying, you little bitch . My gaze tears from the child and slides along the counter island toward the knife block sitting there. Keane doesn’t hesitate. He steps in front of Rafe and Sarah.
“Don’t you even fucking think about it.”
A small gasp. “Unkie Keane! You said a bad word!”
“Rafe, get her out of here. And tell Meribella I’d like to speak with her about why Sarah is running around unsupervised.”
Rafe doesn’t question him, but I catch the inquisitive look he sends my way before he walks out of the room, distracting Sarah by talking to her in Spanish. The only word I recognize is mariposita , little butterfly.
With her absence, my lungs constrict, making it hard to breathe. I haven’t had a panic attack in over a year. But the tunneling of my vision and my labored breathing tell me Keane is about to witness one.
As the thrumming fills my head with a loud, buzzing noise, I fight it. I’m no longer the weak girl hiding in the corner. I will never be that girl again.
“If you don’t put the knife down right now, I will break your goddamn arm.”
“What?” I asked, perplexed.
“Put. The knife. Down.”
I look down at my hand. I didn’t realize I had picked one up. I turn the hilt in my palm, testing the weight of the handle, and grip it like I’m about to recreate the shower scene in Psycho .
“She shouldn’t be here.”
Keane takes a cautious step forward, his body tense and coiled tight, ready to take me down.
“She shouldn’t fucking be here, Keane!” I scream at him, and he pulls up short.
At my outburst, Jax and two guards rush into the room. The guards skid to a standstill and bring up their guns, pointing them at me, when they see the chef’s knife in my hand.
“Lower your fucking guns,” Jax tells them.
“Out!” Keane yells. “And if you breathe a word about this, I will shoot you both myself.”
The guards lower their weapons and back out of the room.
The blade shakes violently in my grasp as adrenaline floods my bloodstream. “Keane, you can’t let him have her.”
I turn to Jax. He’s my angel of death. My Grim Reaper. I beg him with desolate eyes. “Jax, please. Don’t let him have her. Please .”
Jax raises his hands in front of him, the dragon tattoo coming to life on his bicep, crimson fire erupting from its open maws and swirling around to his shoulder. I feel like a trapped animal that’s being stalked by two apex predators. Keane to my right and Jax to my left. There is no scenario where this will end well for me.
Sarah’s existence has altered my plans to take down my father. Because now, I’m going to deliver death to his doorstep. I can’t allow him to remain breathing. I will never let him touch a hair on her precious head.
They don’t know. They don’t know what he’s done.
“Shut up, Kellan!” I angrily cry and hurl the knife across the room in a violent fit of unsuppressed rage.
It stabs the wall with a loud thunk. My legs give out and I stumble back, ramming into the refrigerator behind me, and slide boneless to the floor. Holding my head in my hands, I try to block out my childhood memories. The ones of the demon shadow that would appear in my bedroom doorway in the middle of the night. With his arrival, I knew the pain would soon come. The terror. The begging.
A warm hand on my knee shocks me out of my conscious nightmare. The heat of it burns away the chill that is making my teeth chatter.
Keane’s low timbre adds another layer of warmth. “Andie, what’s going on?”
I never cry. But there is no way to stop the tears from falling now. “Swear on your life, Keane. Swear that you will never let him touch her.”
His hand runs up my arm and curls around the nape of my neck. I lift my head and meet his soulful gaze. The concern on his face is almost my undoing. I want to throw myself in his arms and have him hold me. There were so many nights I needed someone just to hold me with kindness. Needing something good to replace the bad that coated my skin like oily sludge everywhere my father had touched me.
“He’ll hurt her.” My voice trembles, but I’m not able to confess more because of the shame I still carry. They don’t understand what he’ll do. What he did. My father is the worst kind of monster.
“We would never let anyone hurt her,” Jax promises darkly, understanding finally dawning across his face.
Jax and I are kindred spirits, if you think about it. We both have black, empty souls. Ironic that it was my father who made us that way.
The boys settle down more comfortably on the tile floor with me, and instead of feeling trapped, their closeness makes me feel safe. Besides, I’m too mentally exhausted to move right now.
“What the hell was that all about?” Rafe asks as he walks back into the kitchen.
Keane shakes his head at him.
I want to know more about my niece. I’ve missed so many years with her. Why didn’t Kellan tell me? How could he allow her to grow up here, knowing what our father was capable of? He risked her life on a daily basis by keeping her in this house. He put her in the gilded prison of a monster, just like the one I was trapped in for over fifteen years. For the first time in my life, I feel hatred for my brother, and it almost cripples me with the strength of it. Thank goodness, I’m already sitting down.
“She’s beautiful,” I say aloud. Perfect cherub face with a halo of honey-brown hair and bright brown eyes. She’s perfect. “How old is she?”
“Sarah turned four three months ago,” Rafe replies, sitting down on the floor next to Keane.
“You taught her Spanish?” I ask him.
Rafe’s grin has a small grin appearing at the corners of my mouth. Of course he did.
“Who’s Meribella?”
All three men look at each other, and Keane gives Jax and Rafe an almost imperceptible nod.
“Meribella is Sarah’s nanny.”
“Who’s the mother then? Did I know her?”
The only long-term girlfriend Kellan ever had was Raquelle. He dated her during his tenth and eleventh grade years when they were at Founders Ridge Prep. Raquelle was gorgeous. Mocha skin and dark chocolate eyes. And tall. I remember her being only a couple inches shorter than Kellan.
Keane rakes his hand through his hair, creating tufts at the top that stick up. He actually looks nervous.
“Uh, I doubt you’d know her. She was some random hookup Kellan met.”
“She died of an overdose right after Sarah was born,” Rafe says.
Alarm for Sarah has me wide-eyed. “She didn’t use while she was pregnant, did she?”
Keane jumps in with a stern, “Not that we know of. Kellan made sure the doctors ran every test imaginable when Sarah was born.”
I lean my head back against the cold metal of the refrigerator, relief washing over me. “Why didn’t he tell me about her?”
I can’t stop the overwhelming betrayal I feel. I trusted Kellan. He was my brother, my best friend, my guardian. And he lied to me by omission. He kept huge secrets from me, and knowing that has me doubting if I ever really knew my brother at all. It has me doubting every word he said to me and wondering why I’m going through so much trouble to avenge a brother who apparently didn’t trust me.
“I don’t know,” Keane answers. “I wish to hell that I did. Kellan made us promise to never let anyone outside of our group know about his daughter. He never said why, and we didn’t question him.”
I scoff, a bitter laugh choking out of me. Kellan trusted Keane, Rafe, and Jax more than me. Three killers with enough blood on their hands and dead bodies buried in the ground. Well, Kellan can kiss my ass because I’m not leaving here without my niece. When I finally take my father down, I’m taking Sarah away from this hellhole. And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
“We’re not done talking about this,” I tell them.
I have questions and they are damn sure going to answer them. But not right now. I need to get my head on straight. I need to figure out my next move. Is anything going to go my way? Every step I take forward, feels like I’m shoved three feet backward. I had everything so perfectly planned out. My goals were set. And then fucking Liam, my father, and Declan Levine dropped landmines in my path. I should just get it over with, find a gun and slip into my father’s room one night and splatter his brains all over the walls.
Sarah is a new piece to this intricate game of chess we’re playing. A pawn. Vulnerable. As the queen, it’s my job to protect her. But I can’t do it without the other pieces. Without the knights, rooks, bishops, and king.
My body aches as I stand up after sitting in an uncomfortable position. For once, I’m the one looking down at the three men still sitting on the floor. A savage princess among the warriors of her kingdom. It’s time for me to get to work and end this.