Chapter 5
FIVE
VIOLET
The plane ticket sat next to my passport on my kitchen counter, along with instructions for the housekeeper who would be checking in to dust and water my plants. How sad that I was in my thirties, and the only person I needed to notify of my upcoming trip was the person who cleaned my house.
When my parents buried the empty casket with my sister’s name on it, they buried me with it. At least in their minds. From that day on, they withheld everything: their courtesy, their money, and certainly the influence their name carried.
I hadn’t seen them since.
It didn’t matter. I didn’t want or need anything from them. That chapter had ended for me.
What they hadn’t counted on was my grandfather, who had always been unpredictable and fickle.
He died four years after we buried Lily, but it was the reading of his will that sent shockwaves through the family.
Every cent of the generational fortune, every asset, and every estate he owned had been left to me.
The condo I now stood in. The house where my parents still lived in. All of it.
My parents’ lives had crumbled overnight.
They reached out, but I refused to open that door.
I wouldn’t subject myself to their falsities.
Instead, I instructed my attorney to sign the deed over to the heritage-listed brownstone to them on the condition that they never contact me again.
I didn’t do it for my father, but for my mom.
Yes, she’d failed me, but Mom was a victim of my father’s narcissism too, and I had no doubt it would turn into cruelty if they lived in poverty.
So, I’d ensured they were comfortable for her sake, and then I vowed to never revisit that chapter of my life.
Greece, on the other hand, was one I had been longing to rewrite.
As I stood surrounded by bare walls and half-empty cabinets, I studied the space stripped of any signs of life.
The loneliest years of my life had been sealed away in neatly stacked boxes.
Every bare patch on the wall carried the ghost of something that once hung there.
My Ph.D. thesis—the title page of my work on the ins and outs of criminal minds—used to hang to the left.
Beside it had been my awards, my doctoral degree, and my professional accolades.
Yet none of it mattered to me.
There was something—or someone, rather—that mattered to me, and it was in Greece. So, I’d informed Dr. Franklin that as soon as I finished my assignment, I planned on taking the sabbatical. I would stay in Greece and look for what I had given up.
My fingers found the pendant resting against my chest. I clutched it, rubbing the cool metal between my thumb and forefinger, tugging lightly at the chain.
In moments like this, when the tides of my life shifted, the pendant felt heavier somehow.
Almost as if it held a story that had been waiting for its turn.
A shrill ringing from my phone jolted me out of my stupor.
I spun around, momentarily disoriented, and caught my reflection in the wall mirror.
A fatigued thirty-one-year-old woman stared back at me, dressed in jeans and a gray pullover despite the mild March air.
My light brown hair that some considered almost blonde was tied into a tight ponytail, revealing high cheekbones and lines of exhaustion on my heart-shaped face.
My light brown eyes looked sad, and I couldn’t even recall the woman who’d had a zest for life and untapped curiosity before it all went wrong.
All I could see was this version of me: one who was worn thin by the baggage she carried.
Riiing. Riiing.
I dug into my back pocket and pulled out my phone, answering without even glancing at the caller ID.
“Dr. Freud,” I answered.
“Umm, hi. It’s me.”
My spine straightened, recognizing the voice. “Sienna, is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
I waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t, I asked slowly, “What can I do for you?”
Sienna Baldwin was one of my best friend’s cousins, and while I was very fond of her, she avoided therapy—hence: me—like the plague.
“I need you to answer something,” she said. “And don’t go all therapist on me right away.”
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “That’s a dangerous way to start a conversation.”
“Can you do it or not?”
A beat. “Fine. You’ve got a few minutes.”
“Hypothetically,” she said, dragging the word out, “how bad is it to… teach someone a lesson?”
I leaned back against the couch. “That depends on the lesson.”
A quiet hum of amusement came through the line. “See, that’s why I called you. You always make it sound reasonable.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I said. “Who are we talking about?”
“No one important.”
“Sienna.”
She exhaled softly. “Let’s just say… I misread a situation.”
“That’s vague.”
“On purpose.”
I let the silence stretch.
Another second passed before she added, lighter but edged, “You ever meet someone who makes you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be… and then acts like you imagined the whole thing?”
There it was.
“Possibly when I was in high school,” I responded. “But in the grand scheme of things, you forget about it because ultimately, there are bigger and more important things in life.”
She scoffed. “That is impossible to forget.”
She didn’t have to elaborate on what that was. She never referred to her kidnapping as “kidnapping”; that was seemingly a result of her dare with an Irish mobster. That single action got her kidnapped and on the radar of the men that should have never known Sienna existed.
“And now you want to ‘teach him a lesson,’” I said.
“Something like that.”
I rubbed my temple. “What about it makes you think that’s a smart thing to do?”
A pause followed before she took a deep breath in and exhaled over the line. “I want to make him feel it.”
“Feel what?”
She let out a quiet breath. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll know.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “Sienna…”
“No, hear me out,” she cut in, energy sharpening. “I get close. I let him think he’s in control, like he always does to me. I let him believe whatever version of me he wants.”
“And then?”
“And then I take it away,” she said simply.
The calm in her voice sat wrong.
“That’s not a game you want to play,” I said.
“Why not?” she shot back. “Men like him do it all the time.”
“Men like him don’t lose.”
“They do if someone’s smarter.”
“And you think that’s you?”
“I know it is.”
I pushed up from the couch, pacing now. “You’re talking about someone who—what? Messed with your head?”
Another quiet pause. “Something like that,” she said.
“Sienna—”
“I’m not sitting around over it,” she cut in quickly. “I’m just… evening things out.”
“By putting yourself back in his orbit?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not control.”
“It is if I’m the one choosing it.”
The certainty in her voice made me pause.
“And what happens when it doesn’t go the way you think it will?” I asked.
“It will.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
Silence stretched between us.
“What’s his name?” I asked again. She always refused to disclose that little detail, regardless of the fact that I couldn’t disclose it. Our conversations were private and they would remain so.
She hesitated—just for a second. “An Irish mobster, a member of the Callahan family.”
I stilled. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
“Does he know you’re planning this?”
“Of course not.”
“Good,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “It was a stupid question anyhow, because if he knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You worry too much.”
“You don’t worry enough.”
She ignored that. “I’ll make him want me. That part won’t be hard.”
Something in my chest tightened at the certainty in her voice.
“And then?” I pressed.
“And then I’ll make sure he pays for everything he’s done,” she said. “Not just to me.”
My eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” she said lightly, “I won’t walk away empty-handed this time.”
“Sienna… how are you planning to do that?”
“I’ll give him to the police on a silver platter.”
I stopped pacing. “You’re going to build a case on him.”
“I’m going to hand them everything there is to know about the man.”
“That’s incredibly dangerous.”
“So is he.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
She let out a quiet breath. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You only think you do.”
A flicker of irritation slipped into her tone. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust the situation.”
“Well, lucky for me, I’m not asking for your approval.”
I closed my eyes for a second. “Let me at least connect you with someone—”
“No,” she cut in. “No more therapy. No more talking it to death.”
“This isn’t talking it to death, this is—”
“This is me handling my own life,” she snapped. Then, softer, “For once.”
That stopped me. Silence settled between us.
“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” I said.
“I won’t be the one walking away this time.”
My chest tightened just as voices sounded in the background on her end.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Sienna, wait—”
“It’s fine,” she added, lighter now, like she was already moving on. “I’ll be careful.”
I didn’t believe her.
“Sienna—”
“Talk soon, Doc.”
The line went dead.
Too late. I was left with silence as I put out a silent prayer that the Baldwins would intervene.