Evelyn
By: Tracie Podger
Copyright
Evelyn
Copyright 2014 © Tracie Podger
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents, either, are products of the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any reference to actual locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.
About the author
Hi, I’m Tracie and currently live in Kent, UK with my husband and a rather obnoxious cat called George. In between being a Padi Scuba Diving Instructor and having a full time job, I’ve managed to, so far, write four books with a fifth in the planning stages. I’ve been so fortunate to have dived some of the wonderful oceans of the world and it’s only under the water, that I feel the most relaxed.
Thank you for giving your time to read my book and I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. If you would like to know more, please feel free to contact me.
Twitter, @Tracie Podger
Facebook, Tracie Podger, Author
or via www.TraciePodger.com
Out now
Fallen Angel
Fallen Angel II
Coming soon
Fallen Angel - Robert’s Story
A Virtual Affair
Acknowledgements
I could never have written the Fallen Angel series without the support of my family. My husband has been my rock, without him, I wouldn’t be here.
Huge thanks to a wonderful Author, Tom Ericson for all his help, encouragement and his involvement in the cover design, again.
My heartfelt thanks to the best readers and proofreaders a girl could want, Romy Lazzari, Janet Hughes and Paula Radell. Your input is invaluable.
I have to give thanks to the many people who bought Fallen Angel, Parts I & II and the wonderful reviews and messages I’ve received. I’m still humbled that you love what I do.
And last but certainly not least, a big hug to my publicist and friend, Paula Radell. She is one of the kindest people I’ve come across on this journey called self publishing. Paula is responsible for getting my books out there and I am overwhelmed by her support and belief in The Fallen Angel Series. Please see below for details of Paula’s facebook page, take a look and follow. She is a huge supporter of indie authors and I am thrilled to have her on my team.
Paula Radell - www.facebook.com/curlupandread
So how did this all start? It’s been a long journey but my love of writing came about after I was encouraged to do so as part of my recovery from depression. I have always loved to read and lose myself in books, words soothe me.
One day, after a series of dreams, I sat with my laptop and the words flowed from my fingertips - pages and pages of them. I forgot my troubles and lost myself in the characters I have created. I hope you can too.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you - Maya Angelou
Chapter One
My day had gone from bad to worse. That morning I had taken my sister, Maria, to the doctors, again. She had always been a sickly child but since mom died she seemed to have retreated further and further into herself. My father struggled to cope so he immersed himself in his business. And the man I secretly loved had recently been killed.
****
I was sixteen years old when Rocco turned my world inside out, upside down. He had worked for my father, was his right hand man and although nearly ten years older than me, he had always shown me kindness. With his dark, wavy hair and hazel eyes, I would imagine him as a movie star, the subject of posters stuck on the bedroom walls of teenage girls. Instead, he ended up second in command in my father’s business. And what business was that? The business of crime, the Mafia. For that’s what we were, a powerful family in Washington, DC.
He had been sent to America from Naples by his mother and into the care of my family. I’d heard the rumours that surrounded him, He was ruthless, some said violent. People whispered about him, no one caught his eye and I felt a little sorry for him. He had been taken into our home, and I knew my mother was not happy about it.
Lying in bed one night I heard the raised voices from downstairs. I crept from my bed and sat at the top of the stairs to listen.
“He killed a man, Guiseppe,” I heard my mother say.
“I know, but he did that to avenge his family,” my father had replied.
They argued back and forth. I guessed my mother was not pleased that he had been given refuge in her home. My mother and us children had been sheltered from my father’s business. We knew what he did of course. It was hard not to overhear the gossip, to see the house full of people, money, and, although my father never knew, I’d seen the guns hidden in the little shed at the back of the garden.
As I sat and listened, I watched the front door open, Rocco entered and the arguing stopped. I scrambled to my feet, trying not to be seen, but I had. He looked up the stairs and smiled at me. My face flushed before I quickly made my way back to my bedroom.
“Is he back?” Maria asked as I climbed into bed.
“Who?” I replied.
“Rocco, of course. I see the way you look at him.”
“Go back to sleep, Maria, and mind your own business.” I snapped.
Whenever I knew Rocco was in the room next to mine I couldn’t sleep. I would toss and turn thinking of him. Of his hazel eyes and his soft voice. He didn’t look like a killer; he looked just like any other normal guy, beautiful, but normal.
****
The following morning as I was helping mom prepare the breakfast, Rocco came and silently sat at the table. My mother gave him a forced smile but the tension was palpable, it sparked around the room and made me feel uneasy. I placed food on the table and as he reached forwards, his hand brushed against mine. I pulled back quickly, my face burning as I heard him softly chuckle.
“Go to the store, Evelyn,” my mother said, as she handed me a list. Had she seen? Did she know how, at only sixteen, I was so affected by this man?
I rushed from the room, colliding with my father.
“Why the rush?” he asked.
“Papa, I’m sorry. I heading to the store, can I get you anything?”
I loved my father so much. He was big man with rough, calloused hands that would squeeze me tight to his chest as I sat on his lap. He would tell me stories of where he had been born, of the olive groves his parents had owned in a little village in Italy. He used to say that he would take me, always the next year, but we never went. My mother had told me that he had fallen out with his parents and my father, being the stubborn man that he was, would not forgive them.
As I entered the deli, the tinkle of the doorbell alerted the owner he had a customer. I was greeted with a hug, encouraged to sample a new cheese that had been flown in and to dip freshly made bread into warm olive oil. I handed over the list my mother had prepared and browsed, taking in the smells of the cheeses, the meats, the fresh tomatoes and listening to the chatter of the locals. Sometimes I would hear my father’s name and the chattering would stop, people looking my way to see if I’d heard. But, mostly, I was welcomed and embraced.
Before heading home I would pop into the little watchmaker’s and sit for a coffee with my father’s oldest friend, Joseph. He was a kind man who always had time for me. He loved to talk, especially about the old days, the days when my father had first arrived. He would laugh
at some of the mischief they got in to and no matter how many times I had heard the story, he told me how my father had helped him start his little business. I could recount the tale word for word, but I always sat in silence and listened. He wasn’t an old man, but he’d had a hard life, making him seem so much older.
On arriving home, the house seemed empty. I stored the food away and started my chores. Curiosity got the better of me and I made my way upstairs. My hand rested on the door handle of the room Rocco slept in. I hesitated, listening before opening it. The bedroom was tidy with just a single bed against the wall, a dresser under the window and a cupboard for clothes. On top of the dresser I noticed a folded T-shirt. Picking it up, I raised it to my face, brushed the soft cotton against my cheek and breathed in the smell of him. And then I heard the floorboard creak. Spinning around I came face to face with Rocco wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. I stared at his stomach, the muscles still dripping with water from his shower and the tattoos that covered his chest and one arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was looking for laundry. I was smelling, erm, you know, to see if it was clean,” I mumbled, my face burning.
I couldn’t look at him, staring only at his bare feet. He took a step towards me and I held my breath. He placed his fingers under my chin and lifted my head. His beautiful hazel eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Thank you, Evelyn. I took care of it myself,” he said, his accent making my stomach quiver.
I could have died right then, from embarrassment. I amused him, that much was evident and I quickly pushed my way past and headed for my room. I sat on my bed and waited with bated breath until I heard him leave, the front door shut behind him. The sight of him, the smell of his clean, tattooed body filled my mind and I closed my eyes. I felt a fluttering in my stomach that just wouldn’t subside, and I fell in love.
****
I spent the next few months avoiding Rocco as much as possible. Sometimes it was hard, especially in the evenings when my father would expect us all to sit around the table for dinner. I couldn’t look at him and if he spoke to me I would mumble my reply. I was the first to leave with the excuse of clearing the dishes or helping my mother.
One particular evening, the dishes washed, the table cleared, my mother and I sat with our coffees.
“He’s no good for you, Evelyn,” she said.
I looked up into her soft brown eyes, brimming with tears.
“I love your papa with all my heart, but this isn’t a life I want for you,” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.
“You do, my sweet girl. Be careful who you give your heart to, that one will break it. He is too old for you, too damaged already.”
My mother met my father in Chicago; he had been in business with her family before deciding to move to Washington. The story went that she loved him from the first time they met. They were young and they struggled for a long time. Even after I was born, they lived in a one-bedroom apartment in a rundown block trying to juggle finances, prejudice and life. It was why the Italians stayed in one community where they could rely on each other for help. She was a young bride, with a baby, and far, far away from her parents.
She left me there to think, sneaking outside for her ritual evening cigarette that she thought no one knew about.
Only a few months later, just before my seventeenth birthday, my mother died of cancer. Thankfully it had taken her quickly, she hadn’t suffered for too long. My father was destroyed, my sister refused to speak, and I was left caring for a toddler who would never know what a wonderful mother he’d had.
Chapter Two
My life changed the day I finished high school. I’d had plans for college but that was never to be. I had a family to care for. Joey was growing fast, Maria never left her bedroom, and my father relied on me to take care of the house. At night I would hear him cry, I would creep into his room and snuggle beside him. He would hold me tight and apologise for the life I now led. I was a mother, a housekeeper, a cook and somewhere at the bottom of the list, a daughter to a man struggling to cope. It was at this time that I began to learn just how powerful my father was.
People would come to the house, bringing gifts and food. They would be ushered into a room where my father sat. He was never without three men, Rocco, Jonathan and Mack. I knew my father owned a gym, I had visited a couple of times and would watch Mack box and sometimes, late at night, he would come to the house bloodied and bruised. Jonathan always looked so smart in his suit with shirt and tie. And then there was Rocco. Over the past year he had changed. He looked like he worked out a lot, his T-shirts would show off his broad shoulders, the muscles on his arms; and although he no longer lived at the house, he would always have a kind word for me. I still blushed every time I saw him, remembering that day in his bedroom. I still got that fluttering in my stomach when I saw him and I still avoided him whenever I could. My shyness crippled me whenever he was close.
My father conducted his business from home and I was growing uncomfortable with it. I was asked to make coffee and take it into his meetings, into a room full of men and cigar smoke. My father would be behind his desk and sometimes his guests would openly display their nerves; coffee cups would rattle in saucers. They often commented on how beautiful I was and fawn over me as if it would please my father, but one day a man took it a little too far.
I had made coffee and was placing the tray on a small wooden table in the centre of the room. I never made eye contact, nor would I speak, just deliver refreshments and leave. However, on this one particular day my father was entertaining a very well dressed man. He thanked me in a New York accent and as I turned to leave, I noticed his companion, standing a little away from the group. He leered at me as he placed an arm around my shoulders. I froze as Rocco leapt forward, grabbing the man by the scruff of his shirt. I watched in horror as he spun him around and smacked his head straight down on the desk. Blood spurted from his broken nose.
“Keep your fucking hands off her,” he growled.
With shaking hands, I fled the room to the safety of the kitchen. I listened as the men left, the front door being closed and then my father came and sat at the table with me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Who were those men?” I replied.
“Business associates, that’s all.”
“Papa, I know about your business, I know what you do. I have ears and I’m not blind.”
“Evelyn, I care for my family, I provide, that’s what I do.”
“Please, papa, can you do that elsewhere? Think of Joey, of Maria. Move your business to an office, away from here.” I pleaded.
He nodded and as he stood he pulled me to his chest. His strong arms wrapped around me and I felt ten years old again, comfortable in his embrace. I would never question my father for his chosen line of business but I didn’t want it in the house anymore. I wanted the family to be separated from it.
“Why did Rocco hurt that man?” I asked as we pulled apart.
“He was just protecting you, that’s good isn’t it? No man will lay his hands on you, bella.”
I smiled up at him; his pet name for me, bella, meaning beautiful, always brought a smile to my face.
“Think about it, for me, papa.”
He nodded and returned to his office. I started to prepare the evening meal, my back to the kitchen door when I heard footsteps come across the tiled floor.
“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have seen that,” he said.
As usual, my stomach knotted at his voice, so soft, so very different to when he addressed anyone else.
“It’s fine, Rocco.” I said as I turned to face him.
“I’ve asked papa to move his business from here. There’s Maria and Joey to think of, I want this to be a safe home for them. Perhaps you can talk to him?” I asked.
He nodded but didn’t speak. We stood and looked at each other for what seemed like forever before he smiled, turned and left. For two
years I had loved that man and I knew it was love. He was all I thought about when I woke and all I dreamed about when I slept. And yet, he was the one man I would never have. My mother had been right, he did break my heart, but he would never know that he had.
****
I woke the morning of my eighteenth birthday to Joey jumping up and down on my bed. He held in his little hands a stack of cards for me. As he snuggled under my arm we opened them. It was with shaking hands that I lifted the last one to my nose, I could still smell the faint hint of her perfume, sprayed over the purple envelope. It was a letter from my mother. Her flowing handwriting had written an instruction across the front. I was to open the letter on that day, not before. My father had come to sit on the end of the bed; he had kept this letter for me.
“Joey, come, leave your sister in peace,” he called, making his way to the door.
Joey toddled after him and I placed the unopened letter on my bed. I needed time before I opened and read my mother’s words. I showered and dressed, made my way to the kitchen with the envelope. I left it on the kitchen table as I sat with my family and opened their gifts. I was aware of my father’s wealth and more so when I opened a beautifully wrapped necklace, a cross embedded with diamonds on a simple chain. Many years later I would see a similar version, worn around the neck of a remarkable woman. One I would come to love as if she were my daughter.
It was a wonderful morning. Joey helped to unwrap the gifts my father’s associates had bought, although I was aware this was more to please him than me. Besides the necklace, the one I loved the most was a vintage Cartier watch from Joseph. I would take a walk later and thank him for it. Ushering them from the kitchen so I could clear the mess, I thought about the envelope. I wanted to be alone when I read the contents and I wanted to be close to my mother.
After retrieving my coat, I made my way to Joseph’s. He had a customer but on seeing me enter his store he brushed him aside to pull me into a hug.
“Evelyn, happy birthday,” he said.
Evelyn (Fallen Angel Series Book 3) Page 1