by Nicole Fox
I move my hands to the front of her body, past her navel and up to her chest. My hands settle over her breasts, squeezing them delicately. She leans against me more, her head lolling against my shoulder. My hands are massive on her small frame, but when they’re over her breasts, they’re a perfect fit.
I bow my head, our lips meeting. We kiss. My hands massage her breasts, her breath cutting short against my mouth as I squeeze harder. She tastes like burnt bread.
No, it smells like burnt bread.
I pull away from her, my hands slipping out from under her shirt. “I think your infamous grilled cheese is burning.”
“Oh shit!” She grabs the spatula, quickly flipping the sandwich. The bread is charred.
“God,” she mutters. She grabs the bag of bread. “I’m sorry. I’ll make another one.”
“I’ll still eat it,” I say. I slide my hand under her shirt again, my fingertips brushing against her nipple.
She smacks my hand. “You already distracted me. I don’t want your first taste of my grilled cheese to be a burnt one.”
“And I don’t want to wait to try it,” I say. I indicate to the bag of bread in her hand. “Besides, it looks like you only have one piece of bread left.”
“You’re right.”
“Can you repeat that?” I ask.
“I said sit down.” She points to the dining room with her spatula.
“No. You’ve convinced me that your grilled cheese recipe is perfect. Prove it to me. Teach me.”
She leans against the counter. I lean against the counter on the opposite side of the stove.
“You know I can take those clothes from you any time I want.”
“Take them, she challenges. “I’ll cook naked. But if one of your men decides he wants to tell you something, I won’t be running to get clothes.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just blind him.”
We wait in silence for the bread to finish toasting. She flips the sandwich onto the plate and hands it to me.
“Are you going to make yourself something?” I ask.
“I’m not hungry.”
The unburnt side of the sandwich is flawlessly golden. I take a bite. The cheese melts perfectly in my mouth. If it weren’t burnt, it could compete with Calderon’s pastrami sandwiches.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Very infamous,” I say.
She laughs, her hand sweeping down my arm. “Thanks. I promise it won’t kill you.”
My cell phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket as Cassandra looks away. It’s Bogdan. It can only be about the Balduccis.
“I have to take this,” I tell Cassandra.
She gives a small nod. “Of course. I understand.”
I bite my tongue hard enough that I taste blood, the copper taste mixing with the salty flavor of the sandwich. I tap on the phone, bringing it up to my ear. “This better be good.”
14
Cassandra
At my friend’s house the next day, all I can smell is mildew and baby powder.
I never expected Sarah Ray to choose a suburban life. I’ve known her since eighth grade. She was the girl who brought vodka in a water bottle to school, who wore shirts that were tight enough that you could see the outline of her bellybutton ring, who had a fling with the twenty-four-year-old son of our Spanish teacher. She wasn’t malicious or troubled—she just forged her own way and nearly ruined several lives as a result.
But now, sitting diagonally from her in her suburban house as she cradles her baby in her arms, I’m still puzzled at how she’s asking me about my past ten years when hers must have been way more eventful.
“When your dad told us you were finishing your senior year in California, I couldn’t believe it,” she says. “At least, at first I couldn’t believe it. But it made more sense as I thought about it—you never seemed to like the city much. But I just thought you would have said goodbye before you left.”
Sarah, like all my friends, didn’t know I was pregnant. My father invented the California lie. For five months, I dodged any attempt by my friends to call, video chat, or visit me, so they wouldn’t find out I never left the city. After the birth, I continued to avoid them, too consumed in my misery and too busy to deal with my friends who were absorbed in their future plans for college. All my friendships disintegrated except for the one with Sarah, who always kept her friend circle as wide as possible, and Jenny, who had her own habit of appearing and disappearing for months or years at a time.
“I know. The whole process was a mess,” I say. “If you want to know the truth, my dad was paranoid about some of my friendships. He thought Jenny was involved in some bad things, so he sent me across the country and told me to stop talking to any of you. I shouldn’t have listened to him.”
Sarah shakes her head. “Jenny is just a bit eccentric. Your father is … well, something else.”
“Definitely. But let’s talk about you.” I gesture to her baby. “Your life has changed a lot in the last decade.”
“You have no idea. It’s impossible to describe. Everything is so new and crazy in the best way,” she gushes. She runs her hand over her baby’s pale blonde hair. It’s only a couple of shades lighter than her own. They also share the same nose and the same long eyelashes. “It’s one of those things you can’t understand until you’ve carried a baby in your womb and held her in your own hands. Everything else becomes less important. I love Greg, my friends, and my family, of course, but since I’ve had Ashley, all I care about is ensuring she’s safe and happy. Every other kind of love sorta fades in comparison.”
She doesn’t know that I carried my baby for nine months. She doesn’t know that tiny glimpse I saw of my daughter before she disappeared from my life forever—or at least, what I thought was forever. I don’t know what it’s like to keep a daughter, but I know what it feels like to have her growing under your heart and taken away. I know what it feels like to experience that love and not be able to express it.
“Where is Greg?” I ask, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“Getting a new crib. He insists that the one we have isn’t stable enough.” She smiles down at Ashley. “Your daddy would do anything for you. Yes, he would. He loves you more than you’ll ever know. We both do.”
Sarah cradles Ashley closer to her. Ashley gazes up Sarah, taking in every detail of her face. It’s such a look of wonder, I can’t imagine at what age that bond is forged between a child and parent.
Ashley raises her small fist up, opening it enough for Sarah to touch her fingertip against Ashley’s palm. Ashley closes her fingers, clinging to her mother’s finger. I glance up at Sarah. She is looking down at Ashley with such an intense amount of adoration, it feels downright intrusive to be sitting there. Sarah slips her finger out from Ashley’s grasp, takes her hand carefully, and kisses the tiny finger.
This could have been me a decade ago. The house wouldn’t be as nice, I would likely be more stressed out, and I’d be doing it alone, but I’d be filled with the same devotion and reverence.
“I love you,” Sarah coos to her baby. “I love you so much.”
Ten years without my daughter. I didn’t just miss this part, I missed the millions of milestones after it—the first smile, the first word, bedtime stories, her first hobby, the fear and triumph of learning how to ride a bike, the homemade Mother’s Day gifts, the cuddling. Even the bad things—the constant chatter, the germs, the cost, the sleepless nights, the loss of privacy, the tantrums—are missed opportunities. I should have fought so much harder for her.
Being forced to be around a man is something that I didn’t think I’d ever agree to. After leaving my father, I considered freedom to be a top priority and men to be prison guards. But the fact is that Maksim performed a miracle when he found my daughter. There will always be a sliver of gratitude in my heart for that, even when I know he only found her to get revenge on my father by coercing me. My priorities have changed. It’s almost like I’ve
had a baby all over again—my life is different now. Like Sarah said, everything else has become less important. I don’t even know my daughter, but everything else has faded in comparison.
“It’s nothing. It’s just nothing,” the man named Patrick Donnan is saying.
“I think it’s something,” I counter. “The Irish Mafia backed up quickly when the Bratva rose up. You guys weren’t scared of the NYPD raiding your bars or trying to infiltrate your organization, but you ran when the Russians came knocking.”
I survey my surroundings. It’s ugly in here. The only conclusion I can draw is that prison visitation rooms are built in order to depress everyone inside them. The concrete walls and floor are there to remind the families that life is cold. The metal table and chairs are there to remind lawyers that their client is going to be surrounded by steel bars for the rest of their life. The flickering lighting is to remind the prisoners that the light at the end of the tunnel is nothing more than the dancing flames of hell.
Sitting across from this incarcerated Irish hitman in Eastern Correctional Facility, I have no problem imagining him burning in the afterlife. All of my sources told me he was the one to go to about Mafia business—he was an enforcer for the Irish Mafia but he also loved to boast about his past because he liked the power dynamic that was created when he knew something that other people wanted to learn. Like journalists, he knows knowledge is power.
He raises an eyebrow. His face is overgrown with bushy, orangish-red facial hair. “Sweetie, I agreed to talk to ye after Al told me ye were hot enough that your memory would keep my hands busy for a week. Or two. But ye still need to watch your tongue. I know people.”
I lean back in my chair, opening my arms wide to show I’m not afraid—a lie, but one that needs to be constantly stated when it comes to Mafia business.
“I know people, too,” I say. “Do you remember Gianluigi Balducci? He was still doing well before you got locked up. He had a daughter. Do you remember her? That’s me, Patrick.”
“Ah.” He smirks. “The prodigal daughter, finally returned to her daddy’s side, eh?”
“Not quite. But if he found out that you had upset me, it wouldn’t make him happy.”
Patrick shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Your old man is old news. I’ve heard the Bratva is dead set on sending your family to the cemetery, wrapped up in pretty wooden boxes. Your dad’s not going to do shit to me while dealing with those psychopaths.”
“Those psychopaths could become your problem. If they decide you’re too chatty to live, they’ll deal with you.”
“Why would I tell ye anything then?” He scratches at his beard. “Ye just told me the exact reason I shouldn’t talk—they’ll come for me and they’ll gut me worse than a fish.”
“I’m asking about minor details,” I say. “I’ve gotten a fair amount of dirt from other people. I could easily write half my article with what I have. I’m just looking for some extra information to add some grit to it. Nobody has to know anything came from you.”
Patrick tugs twice on his beard. “I am having trouble with a couple of your father’s men. Maybe we can work out a deal.”
“I’m not going to have my father do any favors for you. Either you want to take down the Bratva or you’re too afraid of them to say something. Anything you say isn’t going to screw them over any more than they’re already screwed, so they won’t come after you unless I forget that your name isn’t meant to be in the article.”
“You wouldn’t …” he breathes.
“I know about the money laundering through the hotels,” I interject. “I know about how they use Mexican businesses to traffic drugs. I know they killed Albion Castillo, Dane Hunt, Jimmy Becker, and Isiah Ratliff. I’m certain they’ve killed some of the Irish Mafia too. This is your chance to get revenge. Take it or tell me to fuck off right now.”
We stare at each other. His lips slowly curve up into a smile.
“I’m not quite ready to let ye go,” he says. “My fantasy includes watching ye stretch, so you better get ready for the long haul. What do ye want to know?”
As we delve into his stories—some of them questionable, some of them following the same narrative I’ve heard from the other people I’ve interviewed—I’m not surprised by anything he says. Maksim is in the Bratva, so the violence and crime is par for the course. But it’s good that I’ve been researching this whole time, getting every scrap of information that I can, because it serves as a constant reminder that I can’t let myself fall for him. It’s gotten more difficult every day that passes and I know I need to remember exactly who I’m dealing with.
I am not my father. I am not my family. And I won’t let myself be pulled back into the Mafia world over a man.
Not even a man like Maksim Akimov.
I wait in front of the Fifth Avenue Journal’s office. Maksim pulls up in his black F-150. I hoist myself up into the passenger seat.
Being beside him again, it’s easy to forget all the promises I made to myself. His hair is combed back, and he’s wearing a button-up white shirt—possibly the one I was wearing yesterday—with a black sports jacket and a black tie. All his tattoos are covered up. It’s restrained for him, the perfect cover-up for a Bratva boss trying to fool people into thinking he’s normal.
And yet, my body still hums for him, craving him endlessly.
“Are you going to tell me where she is now?” I ask. “Or are you going to make me wait until we’re at my daughter’s house?”
“It’s on Carriage Street,” he says.
“I don’t know where that is.”
“And her name is Lily,” he adds.
I play with the name in my mind. I don’t know what I expected, but Lily definitely wasn’t on my mind. A flower. Simple, but not too common.
“I like it,” I murmur.
“We need some ground rules.” He brakes at a stoplight, but he doesn’t look at me. “You won’t say anything that might reveal that we’re not who we seem. If you ever want to see Lily again, you have to be on your best behavior.”
“Who are we supposed to be pretending to be?” I ask. I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing black slacks and a red blouse. Innocuous enough, I’d guess.
“Potential adoptive parents,” he says, his grip briefly tightening on the wheel.
I scrunch up my nose. “You’re joking.”
He starts driving again. “No.”
“I need some of our backstory. I can’t make it up on the spot. I’m not that great of a liar, Maksim,” I say.
“Of course you are,” he says. “You’re a journalist. You have to be able to lie to get information. That’s how everyone gets information. You just have the career title to hide behind.”
I cross my arms over my chest and say nothing. I’m not going to be taking his bait, not today. “Where are we going, anyways? House or apartment?”
“Lily lives in a foster home.”
“What?” I blurt out. My heart is racing a lot faster than it should be. My body is panicking before my brain comprehends what he said. “Why? There’s no way she wasn’t adopted right away.”
My phone starts to ring. I glance at it, strongly considering ignoring it. But it’s Tom. I look over at Maksim. If he’s not willing to give me more information now, I’ll have to figure it out once we get there. I tap answer on the phone screen.
“Hey, Tom,” I say.
“Cassandra,” he barks, his voice clipped. “Why have I only seen you dart in and out of here recently? I hope you aren’t dodging me in order to avoid telling me that your story is a bust.”
“No,” I say. I peek over at Maksim. He seems focused on the road. My instincts tell me not to say anything more in front of him—I specifically had him pick me up in front of the office, so he wouldn’t figure out how close I am to exposing him—but I can’t refuse to answer Tom. “I’m just chasing a big story.” I cover the mouthpiece. “Why do you men always insist on being up my ass?” I ask, trying to sound lighthe
arted. “You always want something.”
“I will ignore the leading question there,” he mutters as I uncover the mouthpiece.
“Tom, I have to go. One of my sources is coming,” I say.
“Don’t disappoint me, Cassandra. You know what will happen,” Tom warns.
“I won’t,” I promise. “I’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye.”
I hang up. I tuck my hair behind my ears, uncomfortably shifting my weight in the seat.
“You seemed to lie just fine there,” Maksim says. “Unless I’m your source?”
“That was a simple lie,” I bite back. “It’s completely different.”
I fix my hair again, pinch my bottom lip, rap my fingers against the center console. One nervous tic after another.
“Are you having a seizure?” Maksim asks.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go see her yet. I thought this was going to be a meeting with her parents and we’d pretend to be … I don’t know, new neighbors or something. I don’t think I’m prepared to … to act like I’m going to adopt her. What happens if she asks me if I’m her mother?”
“If she guessed that, I’d be impressed. I might even recruit her to be my right-hand man.”
“I’d kill you,” I snap.
He smirks at me and says nothing.
I fold my arms over my belly. “You know what, I don’t feel great. If I have a virus, I don’t want to give it to her.”
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine. I’m not even okay. I abandoned her. If she’s happy, I’m going to know that she didn’t need me. If she’s miserable, it’s my fault. Even if she’s just okay, she ended up in a foster home. She’s never had any real parents. She’s alone and she’s going to know it’s because of her mother. And she’s right. I abandoned her. I let her go when I should have tried harder to keep her.”
“You’re completely right,” Maksim says. I whip around to look at him. He parks his car in front of a small brown house. The paint is peeling, but it doesn’t look like a den of iniquity. There’s a plastic tricycle, a beach ball, and a dollhouse in the front yard. I hope they have a soccer ball for Lily. “You should have taken on the whole Balducci Mafia. Right after you gave birth, you should have leapt off the bed, grabbed your child, and run out of the hospital. Then you could have stolen a car and driven all the way to North Carolina and everything would have been perfect. Your daughter wouldn’t have any issues at all as you tried to pick up the pieces of your life and avoided your father, a relatively powerful mafia boss.”