“No, you’re not,” says my mother, echoing my thoughts.
“I am,” I insist. “Don’t you see? I’m the daughter of a mafia princess. The niece of the biggest mobster in the state of New York and the daughter of a killer. How could I not be fine?”
Cain bends and kisses each corner of my mouth.
“You’ve been lied to and deceived by us all, but we’ll get through this together. I promise.”
“Sweetheart?” my dad calls to me. I’m not ready to look at him yet.
“Yeah?” I croak pathetically.
“I never wanted you to find out. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt my baby girl. You’ve always been my world. You always will be, no matter what you think of me. I’ll give you the time you need to process all of this. Cain knows everything. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”
Dad’s voice is strained. I still can’t look at him. I focus solely on Cain’s face. His square jaw. Bright blue eyes. The way he looks down at me with worry etched all over his face.
“I love you,” my mother’s voice serenely whispers in my ear as I hear her kneel down on the floor with us. She puts her hand on my back. I don’t want to look at her right now, either.
“I know, Mom.”
“For the record, I’m sorry too, Calla,” Manny says.
I don’t move a muscle until I hear the door close behind them all. It’s after I know they are all gone that I break down once more in my husband’s arms.
The two of us stay in this position until my tears have all dried up. I have so many questions left to ask him. I need to pull my thoughts together.
Cain’s phone vibrates in his pocket. I unlock my grip from his shirt and go to stand, but he holds me in place with one hand while digging into his pocket with the other.
“Stay,” he simply states.
I do. If I could stay cocooned in his arms forever, right here on the floor, I would. I feel safe, untouched by the evil world outside of this house. The moment I walk out of these doors I will become someone I’m not. Someone I will hate.
“Just leave them on the porch,” I hear him say before turning to me.
“That was Priscilla. She has all your stuff.”
His voice is low, unsure even, when he speaks next.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I give a slight shake of my head.
“Not right now.”
My eyes are still closed. I know they’re swollen from all the crying I’ve done. My breathing is delicate and light. My ears keep hearing over and over again the things my loved ones said. There’s an unpleasant taste in my mouth. All of my senses are screaming at me.
“All right then. Will you at least look at me?”
Rough fingertips start to stroke my cheek. A flash runs through my mind of him using these hands that feel so good across my skin to steal, hand over guns to people who use them to kill. I shiver.
“Calla. Look at me.”
It’s more of a demand than a statement. He thinks I’m fragile. In a way I am, but not in the way he thinks, though. My heart has been stomped on and bled dry. But here’s the thing; it’s what terrifies me the most. I am a lot more like my father than any of us can begin to comprehend.