“I might have decked him.”
“I thought about it.” Lindsey shakes her head. “So, yeah, I broke that off. You know what we need?”
“I think you’re about to tell me.”
“A girls’ night out.” She smiles, clearly proud of herself, and I shake my head. “Come on, Al, we’re not nuns. We should go out and let loose a little bit. Maybe meet a hot dude and have a little fun.”
“I work super early in the morning. You remember that, right?”
“Everyone needs a day off. Even you.”
“Until we find someone to replace Stephanie, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”
Lindsey scowls and glances up at a TV that’s silently playing the news above my head.
“Oh, man.”
“What?”
She gestures to the TV with her chin. “I used to be obsessed with that family when I was younger.”
“What family?”
I turn to look at the TV and freeze.
Matriarch of most powerful mafia family on the west coast dead.
That would be my grandmother.
My grandma is gone.
I watch the words scroll on the screen as blood rushes through my ears, blocking everything out. My grandmother, the most important person in my life, is gone, and I can’t talk to anyone about it. I can’t call my cousins or my uncle, Carlo, to ask how it happened or to find out when her service is so I can go home for it.
I can’t do anything.
“Ally.”
I turn and blink at Lindsey, who’s now scowling at me.
“Yeah?”
“I called your name like ten times. Where did you go?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I was just reading about the story.”
“The Watkins and Martinelli families always fascinated me,” she continues, sprinkling salt on her fries. “I mean, the sons on the Martinelli side? Have you seen them? Talk about hot. I might be willing to be a mobster wife if I could snag me one of those.”
I blink at the plate of food in front of me. When did it arrive?
“I mean, how weird would it be to be part of that family?” she continues. “I always thought the mafia was something from the 1920s, not modern-day.”
I nod, my mind racing.
“You know what? I forgot about an appointment I have this afternoon.” I set my napkin on the table and reach for my purse. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“You can have it boxed up.”
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’m sorry. Here’s a twenty.”
I toss the bill on the table and hurry away, trying to control the tears until I’m in my car alone. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m such an idiot. Acting this way will only draw attention to myself, and it’ll have Lindsey asking questions later.
Like…why would the death of an old woman I don’t even know make me so crazy?
I hurry to my car. Once inside, I drive away, leaving Bandon behind. Twenty miles later, I enter a Walmart and hurry back to the electronics section.
I can’t call my family. They don’t know where I am. My grandmother made sure of that eight years ago. I endured four more years of being under my father’s thumb before he was sent to prison and was killed there. My mother was also murdered, and my grandmother sent me away, afraid that I would be the next target.
No one knows where I am.
But there’s one person I can contact. I need to speak to someone from my life in Seattle.
I purchase the burner phone, and when I’m safely in my car again, I turn it on and punch in the number I memorized years ago.
I always send Anastasia the same text. Always. But not this time. Because I’m not just checking in to see how Archer’s doing.
Me: Have you seen the news?
I sit and breathe, close my eyes, and do my best not to dissolve into hysterics. It won’t do me any good to sob uncontrollably in the parking lot of a Walmart.
Get it together, Elena.
Less than a minute later, I get a reply.
Unknown: I did. I’m so sorry, E. How can I help?
The tears come anyway.
There’s nothing Anastasia can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m on my own. I’ve been on my own for almost a decade, but I always knew that if push came to shove, I could contact my grandmother, and she’d help me.
But now, she’s gone.
I haven’t seen or spoken to her in eight years. She warned me then, sternly, that I had to stay hidden, couldn’t blow my cover. She said when the time was right, she’d bring me home.
Even when everything went to shit six years ago at the vineyard, she never contacted me directly. My situation was handled quickly and quietly without a word from her.
Because one doesn’t simply leave the mob. Especially the daughter of the boss. There’s no way out. But I’ve had a reprieve. And I pray that I can stay hidden, that she took our secret with her to the grave. I hope that I’m as safe here in my little haven as I was the day I arrived.
I wipe the tears away and reply to Anastasia.
Me: Nothing to do. I just needed something from home. Been to any new restaurants lately?
That last line is my usual one, the one that secretly asks if Archer’s okay. The man never stops eating. The response is always the same unless something is wrong.
So far, nothing’s ever been wrong.
I need to check on him. To make sure he’s safe and that my family hasn’t done anything to him, especially after the way my father threatened to kill him.
Unknown: Nothing new lately!
That’s the right answer.
I wipe the history on the phone, then place it under the tire of my car and drive over it, making sure it’s good and smashed before I drive back to Bandon.
I don’t even own a cell phone as Ally. I have a house phone at my cottage with old-fashioned voicemail where the few people who call me can reach me.
That’s usually just my work and Lindsey. I stick to myself. I don’t trust anyone, and truth be told, I’m not good with people. Because letting people get too close means establishing a relationship, and relationships only lead to heartache.
Been there, done that, have the scars to show for it.
I wipe my cheeks all the way home, letting myself cry and feel the absolutely stabbing pain the loss of my grandmother has brought.
I park in front of the cottage, hurry inside, and lock the door behind me. I run up to my bedroom and open the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Under my socks and underwear is a framed photo. The only one I allowed myself to bring with me when I fled Seattle all those years ago.
In it, I’m about ten, dressed in a white dress. It was my first communion. The mafia may be full of murdering philanderers, but they’re staunchly Catholic.
Sitting next to me, smiling down at me, is my grandmother.
I hug the photo to my chest and give in to not only the tears from earlier, but also the sobs that have wanted to come since I saw the news report in the diner.
I wish, with all my heart, that I could go to the funeral. To be there to say goodbye to the best person I’ve ever known. I owe her that, especially after everything she did for me. But how? I can’t be seen. It would blow my cover, and the last thing I need is for the family to find me.