A year earlier…
Blood.
Lots of it.
Whether it was mine or yours, it should have been inside us.
Soaring through our veins and arteries. Keeping us alive.
It shouldn’t be seeping from us.
Draining out of us.
Stolen from us.
I blew out a breath as the ache in my body made itself known, and using a few sheets of toilet paper, I rolled it in on itself, creating a tiny barricade I hoped would hold. Shoving it between my ass cheeks was enough to bring on a panic attack, because I hated my ass. Hated. It.
Not for any normal reason, like because it had cellulite. Not because it was just a smidgen too much of a bubble butt. Not because it was bony or flat. I didn’t give a crap about how it looked. I hated it because he used it.
Shuddering as I stood, the paper lodged there, collecting blood he’d spilled, I dragged my panties up high and lowered my skirt.
When I approached the vanity, I looked at myself and was, as always, surprised to note I looked normal. So fucking normal. Not like I’d just been used—abused. Not like the walking wreckage I was.
My body was one big ball of pain as I washed my hands and launched myself into an upright position. Smile firmly fixed in place, I headed on out, then winced when I saw Tiffany, my best friend, had let herself in. She was flat on her belly on the bed, phone in her hand, her legs swaying from side to side.
“Did you see what Lourdes just posted on Instagram? I mean, my God, did she get dressed in the dark?”
My lips twitched. “Maybe she did.”
Tiffany scowled at me, her eyes squinting as she processed my remark and judged whether I was joking or not. Then, because she couldn’t tell—I had a damn good poker face—she grumbled, “Who gets dressed in the dark?”
I shrugged. “It would explain the past few choices she’s made.”
“Fashion disasters you mean.” She huffed, rolled off her stomach, and straightened up into a standing position. Her eyes drifted over me. “You look like you’re in pain.” Her brow puckered. “Got another headache?”
That was the excuse I used when I was feeling this way. “Yeah. I’ll be okay though.” My smile didn’t display just how fragile I felt. I’d had a lot of practice in making certain I looked normal.
That was like my family’s secondary talent. Looking normal when, underneath it all, we were the exact opposite. The primary talent, of course, was making money.
Lots, and lots, and lots of money.
I’d exchange it all for the ability to lead a regular goddamn life.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
She hummed under her breath as she gave me another scan, then she shrugged. Not because she didn’t care—she did. Sometimes I was positive she was the only person who gave a damn about me period—but because she knew me well. We’d gone to St. Lawrence Academy in Manhattan together and had been through thick and thin as friends.
She knew I wouldn’t let anything stop me. She just didn’t know why I was that way. It wasn’t because I was forthright and indomitable. If only it were. But no, it was because the punishment never fit the crime, and I’d learned to adjust my behavior accordingly.
“What’s this party about anyway?” she asked, her attention still on our friend Lourdes’ post.
“Didn’t your dad tell you?” I questioned, amused despite myself.
I headed over to my dressing table and picked up my favorite scent. As I dabbed it behind my ears and along my décolleté, I stared out at the yard where, beneath a blanket of string lights, amid thousands of perfumed flowers and the stirring music from a string quartet, a hundred people were moseying together, appreciating my father’s largesse. One thing could be said about my bastard father—he knew how to throw a party.
“Oh, he did, but I didn’t listen.” She beamed at me, her green eyes twinkling as she straightened up her tie and sorted out a few flyaway strands of hair. Unlike me, who always wore a dress for these events, she wore pantsuits with ties. Sure, she looked like a sexy newscaster, but hell, she rocked it. “You know I make it my job to ignore my dad on the regular.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lies. You’re a daddy’s girl. Face it.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I’m not. He’s making us move.”
“You’re twenty-two, babe. If you want to stay in the city, you can.” There was no envy in my tone, even if inside, I was a wriggling, writhing ball of jealousy over her freedom.
“Nah. Not if you’re moving there too.” Unlike Tiff, I didn’t have the freedom of choice. “Might as well see what New Jersey has in store for us.” She made a puking sound. “Never thought we’d leave the city.”
“Well, that’s what happens when people as rich as our parents get tax breaks for moving states,” I said dryly. With another glance out the window, I looked around the crowd, trying to ensure I had the name-to-faces down pat. Then, I frowned when I saw someone I didn’t recognize. “Who’s he?”
She hummed as she bent forward, peering into the ornate mirror and smoothing her finger around her lips in an effort to keep the line of her lipstick crisp. “Who’s who?”
“The guy with the guards.” As I stared at the man I didn’t recognize, a shiver rushed down my spine. He was in his forties, surrounded by men in black suits that were, quite clearly, packing heat. They had more bulges in odd places than a drug trafficker. “That one,” I stated, pointing to him when she peered out the window too.
She shuddered. “Gianni Fieri. Isn’t he creepy?”
Creepy wasn’t the word. He was, truthfully, quite handsome. In a young Al Pacino kind of way. But he was dark on dark. Black hair, black eyes, black shirt, black tie, black suit and shoes. He was like a walking shadow, for Pete’s sake. And the way he stood there like he ruled the roost? It put me on edge.
No one did that in my father’s presence.
Not without living to tell the tale, and yet he was permitting it. As I watched, my father even wandered over to him, laughing at something before evidently getting down to business as they both sobered up. Well, Father did, Fieri’s lips hadn’t so much as twitched at the bad joke he’d just heard.
“Whoa, he isn’t ass-licking your dad,” Tiffany whispered, sounding just as shocked as I felt, and for a reason.
Everyone licked my father’s ass.
Everyone.
That’s what ninety billion in the bank did to you. Got you rimmed on the regular.
“No.” An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. “That’s weird.”
“Weird? It’s unheard of.” She hummed again. “Wonder why he’s here.”
“He must have invested in your dad’s property development.”
She frowned. “I guess. Shit. I wish I’d listened in on all those boring conversations over dinner now.”
Even though I was so envious of her, I couldn’t contain it sometimes, not just because she had loving parents and a familial relationship that looked like it belonged in a rich man’s version of The Walton’s, I had to smile at her. “You should listen anyway. You know your father wants you to go into the business.”