Of Stone and Sky
Charissa Stastny
Contents
Titles by Charissa Stastny
Prologue
I. Dreamer
1. Lincoln
2. Saemira
3. Lincoln
4. Saemira
5. Lincoln
6. Saemira
7. Lincoln
8. Saemira
9. Lincoln
10. Saemira
11. Lincoln
12. Saemira
13. Lincoln
14. Saemira
II. Negative Peace
15. Lincoln
16. Saemira
17. Lincoln
18. Saemira
19. Lincoln
20. Saemira
21. Lincoln
22. Saemira
23. Lincoln
24. Saemira
25. Lincoln
26. Saemira
27. Lincoln
28. Saemira
29. Lincoln
III. Quicksand of Injustice
30. Lincoln
31. Saemira
32. Angel
33. Saemira
34. Lincoln
35. Saemira
36. Lincoln
37. Angel
38. Saemira
39. Lincoln
40. Saemira
41. Lincoln
42. Saemira
43. Lincoln
44. Angel
45. Saemira
46. Angel
47. Saemira
48. Angel
49. Saemira
IV. Rock of Dignity
50. Lincoln
51. Saemira
52. Lincoln
53. Saemira
54. Lincoln
55. Saemira
56. Lincoln
57. Saemira
58. Lincoln
59. Saemira
60. Lincoln
61. Saemira
62. Angel
63. Lincoln
64. Saemira
65. Lincoln
66. Angel
67. Saemira
68. Lincoln
69. Saemira
70. Lincoln
71. Saemira
Epilogue
Author Note
Justice for all
Book Group Questions
Acknowledgments
Also by Charissa Stastny
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 - Tangled Willow Press
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author.
Cover Design by Poole Publishing Services
ASIN: B091FY96XN
ISBN: 978-1-948861-24-3
Titles by Charissa Stastny
Ruled Out Romances
Game Changer
Package Deal
Collateral Hearts
Bending Willow Trilogy
Finding Light
Guarding Secrets
Embracing Mercy
Stand-Alone Novels
Between Hope & the Highway
A Wrinkle in Forever
Of Stone and Sky
To those
who fought, and still fight,
for justice for ALL
Glossary
Albanian words
eja = come
vajze = girl
vajze e keqe = bad girl
bijë = daughter
policia = police
dreqin = hell
faleminderit = thank you
magjup = gypsy
Romani words
gadjo (male) gadji (female) = derogatory descriptor for an outsider; usually corresponds to not being an ethnic Romani, but can also be an ethnic Romani who doesn’t live within Romani culture.
Prologue
Baba always said withholding facts was a form of lying.
I should’ve listened.
I should’ve done a lot of things, like telling Lincoln the truth when I had the chance.
About who I really was.
My true name, at least.
But it was too late. From the seat in the closet of my new husband’s master suite, I looked out at rose petals on the white carpet leading to the king bed where we’d made love earlier. The vase of roses seemed to taunt me from the table. Lincoln had pulled one out to caress my bare body as we’d consummated our vows just a few hours ago. But now, lingering smoke from the burned-out north wing smothered their subtle fragrance.
Symbolic of the ruin of my life, maybe?
Baba had said no good could come from secrets. He’d been right, as always.
I glanced up at Lincoln and winced. Judging from the fury in every line of my husband’s precious face, my revelation had torched all dreams of a loving family, leaving ashes. This man I adored, and who, up until a minute ago, I’d believed had loved me back, now seemed to loathe me.
Would he turn me over to the cops? Take Altin away from me?
Tears threatened but pity was the last thing I wanted, even if I was pitiful.
Time had run out.
I must disappear from Lincoln’s life—even if that was the only place I wanted to be—because there were far worse outcomes than heartbreak or jail.
Dreamer
“You would have imagined her at one moment a maniac, at another a queen.”
The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
Lincoln
4 months earlier
The balding officer shut his notebook and assured me he’d check back in with my assistant when he found any leads in the investigation. I headed to the elevator, not holding my breath that the police would apprehend the perpetrators who’d upended my stable world.
“Any messages?” I asked my assistant as I passed his desk on the way to my office.
“No, Mr. McConnell.”
I shut my door and slipped out of my suit jacket. Sleet outside mimicked the storm brewing inside me. I dropped my shirt and tie on a chair and pulled on well-used boxing gloves. Leather bags suspended from the corner ceiling had been placed there for days like today.
I flexed my muscles and struck. Punch. Punch-punch-punch. Jab!
I watched the mirrors, focusing on form and footwork as I moved around each bag, imagining an encounter with the gypsy thugs who’d shattered another car window in the parking garage this morning.
Punch-punch-punch!
I’d knock them out of this world, or at least out of my life. My gaze strayed to the court summons on the desk, and I missed the bag and boxed air.
I cursed and staggered forward. For a moment, the past assaulted me—leaving the office late, unaware of hundreds of protesters in a stand-off with the police just a block away—the mob busting out my rear window before I could back up and escape—racing home to find my pregnant wife intoxicated—our fight, and then…
No! I focused on the timing bag. Jab-jab-jab-jab-jab.
Why couldn’t Angeline move on? Two years had passed, and it wasn’t like she needed the money. Her new husband was loaded.
Punch-punch-punch.
I ground my teeth, recalling her knock-out blow that’d landed me in jail and had dissolved the remains of our pitiful marriage.
Jab-jab!
Last time, I hadn’t fought. All I’d wanted was Angeline out of my life. Loss of assets, pride, and reputation had been paltry sacrifices to achieve that end.
<
br /> Problem was, the greedy woman wasn’t gone yet.
Punch-punch-punch!
I yanked off my gloves and towel-dried my body, then donned my shirt, jacket, and tie again.
Time to get back to work.
I propped open my office door to hear the soothing hum of phone chatter from the sales team. The sound of money being made, money EcoCore desperately needed now that my ex had decided to go for my jugular.
A giggle from one of the cubicles brought the lulling music to a screeching halt, like an old-time record pulled off against the needle.
I growled. Giggling signaled poor productivity and a lack of respect. And no intellect.
Finding the culprit in the maze of cubicles wasn’t difficult since she giggled twice more. I caught the lazy airhead mid-giggle, feet on desk, leaning back in the ergonomic chair I’d purchased because research had shown that physical comfort in the workplace led to a fifteen percent increase in production.
Not so with the giggler.
I stopped, feet apart, arms crossed to keep from yanking the girl out of her chair. A nameplate proclaimed her to be Gemma Stone. A dumb name for a silly girl who wouldn’t be working for me much longer.
Ms. Stone hadn’t noticed me yet, judging by how she wiggled her exposed toes on the desk. Leather cording from her chunky pumps wrapped around shapely calves. I did a double take. Were those pompoms dangling off the straps? A few dozen braids coiled down her back, feathers and beads sticking out of them.
“Why thank you. That’s so sweet.” She giggled again.
I cleared my throat.
She flinched, and her feet swept off the desk and hit the carpet as she swiveled around to gawk at me with wide green eyes. Mesmerizing eyes.
I shook my head. Mesmerizing like a wildcat.
“Can you hold for a sec, Jerry?” She cupped the receiver. “May I help you?” She didn’t even act guilty.
I longed to fire her on the spot but couldn’t bypass procedures set in place to keep order at EcoCore. Doing so had bitten me in the past. I did an about-face and marched back to my office without a reply.
I had the information I needed.
I paused at Lionel’s desk. “Get the head of HR up here.”
“Yes, Mr. McConnell.” His stiff British accent and hard-work ethic eased my surface stress. Too bad I couldn’t clone him.
“And have legal send someone up as well. Tell them I need to terminate a Gemma Stone in sales.”
“Yes, sir.”
I shut the door, wondering if I should’ve told him to call Joe Carter in as well. He was the slacker’s direct manager.
But no. Last year, Joe had been forced to let someone on his team go, and it’d almost destroyed him. My friend didn’t have the balls for the ugly stuff.
No matter. I’d fire her for him. Joe had always had my back, and he’d put together a top-notch sales team. I wouldn’t ask him to cut off a weak twig he’d agonize over. With all the dead branches in my own life, I itched to take a power saw to one of them.
Saemira
Age 7 - Fushë-Krujë, Albania
COMPASSION: A desire to help.
Baba tugged his daughter’s hand. “Keep up, Saemira. We can’t dawdle.”
Her fingers slid off the flower growing up through a crack in the cobblestones. “But I want to study that flower with my magnifying glass.” Where did it get water and dirt to grow?
“Not now, princess. A boy needs our help.”
“Can I study it on the way home?”
“Maybe. Let’s see how bad the boy’s injuries are first.”
She skipped to catch up to him and Mama. A gas line had exploded in a building in the Roma village. Zinzan had come to their house to beg for help.
“Why don’t they take him to the hospital?” Baba wasn’t a doctor. He was a teacher.
“The hospital won’t admit Roma.”
“What’s wrong with Roma?”
“Nothing. Mama’s Roma, which makes you half-Roma.”
She twirled to make her dress fly up around her legs. She was also half-American since Baba came from Detroit, Michigan in the United States of America.
“Why don’t we live in the village with Mama’s people?”
“Because we’re lucky,” Mama said.
“Blessed.” Baba took the jug from Mama, switching her for the medical kit. “Which is why we must show compassion to those less fortunate than us.”
“Compassion,” Saemira repeated. “What does that mean?”
He shifted the jug. “To have sympathy for someone in need and to do something about it.”
She would write that in her English book later. “Why won’t the hospital help Roma? That’s not nice.”
“No, it isn’t. Some people fear those they don’t understand.”
She twirled her pretty skirt again. “Maybe I’ll be a doctor when I grow up. I’ll let Roma in.”
Baba patted her head. “A worthy goal.”
They rounded a bend, and she skipped ahead when she saw the river.
“Stay away, Saemira,” Baba called after her. “It’s polluted.”
She kicked a rock and repeated the funny-sounding word. “Polluted?”
“The river will make you sick,” Mama said.
Saemira wished to take her shoes off to wade in the shallows for a minute. But she returned to Mama.
“Such a good girl,” Baba said, patting her head.
She grinned. Her name meant So good.
They rounded a bend and she saw naked children and scrawny dogs playing about a pile of garbage. She wrinkled her nose.
“Ew. This place stinks.”
“Less talking, more walking,” Baba said.
A man ran out of a house. Zinzan. The Roma king bowed to Baba, and they spoke in Romani. She only picked out a few words: boy, face, ear.
Baba thanked him and turned to take her hand.
“Is this the village?” she asked.
“Yes.” He handed the water jug to Mama and took the medical kit.
“Why doesn’t Zinzan live in a castle since he’s king?” His place looked broken and black from smoke.
“He’s a respected leader, not a king,” Baba said. “Zinzan came here long before the dump polluted the river and air. Like your mama, he fled the troubles in Kosovo. These condemned buildings were a godsend back then.”
They climbed a crumbling staircase and Saemira repeated the hard English word in her head. Condemned.
“Watch your step,” Baba said.
She stepped to the side to avoid animal dung. People with skin the color of burnt wood nodded as they passed.
“Eja,” a woman said, motioning for Baba to come.
“Wait for Mama,” he said, leaving her to jog ahead.
Saemira backed away from a missing piece of railing. This place was scary.
Mama caught up to her. “Do not be afraid, darling.” She dripped water from her jug on the doorstep, for luck, before following Baba inside, where he waved for her to join him.
Saemira looked around the crowded, dirty room. People buzzed like bees and growled like dogs. A skull on the floor made her shiver. Chickens darted about. Flies landed on her face. She shooed them, but more took their place.
“Come, pretty girl.” A dark man with a hoop earring patted his lap. She backed away, wondering how he knew English. “Eja,” he said in Albanian.
“Saemira,” Baba called, and she ran to him. “Stay by Mama.” He leaned over a groaning boy.
She cringed at the white patches of skin that oozed blood on the boy’s dark face and arm. His ear was gone, and the red flesh around his eyes and nose sagged.
“Clean his arm, bijë.” Mama handed her a damp rag. “Gently, to wash away impurities.”
She focused on her task to avoid seeing the boy’s awful face. They were indeed lucky and blessed not to live here. They’d never had an explosion at their house.
“Is the boy worth saving?” The man with the hoop earring spok
e in English again, making her jump as he brushed her skirt.
“He’s a child of God,” Baba said in Albanian. “Of course, he’s worth saving.”
The man switched to Albanian. “Bengalo’s a child of the devil, same as his whore mama. Nothing but trouble since she abandoned him.”
The boy winced and closed his eyes.
“I have a room,” Baba said. “He could stay with us.”
The scary man spat on Baba’s shoe. “He might be the son of the devil, but he’s Roma. He will not be contaminated by American gadjo.”
She wanted to ask what that word meant, but Baba turned his back to the mean man and kept working.
“Bah!” The man turned and left.
Saemira kept washing the boy’s burns, but her tummy felt sick. She didn’t like touching the ugly, burned boy. She tugged on Mama’s sleeve and cupped her mouth.
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