You Belong With Me

by Kristen Proby

  Baby animals need their breakfast, and at the Oregon Coast Wild Animal Rescue, I’m the lucky woman who gets to feed them.

  I stretch my arms over my head and then sit up, letting the blankets fall around my hips, exposing my naked body to the crisp morning air.

  Summer is waning, and it won’t be long before I have to turn on the heat. But I’ve been clinging to the season with all of my might. Once winter arrives, we’ll have more rain and grey days than I care to think about. So, I plan to hold on to these nice summer moments for as long as I can.

  I throw a robe around my shoulders, slide my feet into slippers, and pad downstairs to my small kitchen.

  I live in what I lovingly refer to as a cottage. That’s probably too grand a word for my little cabin in Oregon. My bedroom is a loft upstairs, and down below, I only have a kitchen, a small living space, and an efficient bathroom.

  But it’s only me here, so it fits me just fine. In the six years that I’ve lived in Bandon, Oregon, I’ve never needed more than this.

  I come from mansions and a life of privilege, yet nothing has ever made me feel as safe as this.

  I pop a pod in my Keurig, set my Blow me, I’m hot mug on the counter, and as my first cup of coffee brews, I step out onto the deck that gives me just a tiny peek at the ocean. The sky is clear today, and the wind is calmer than usual, so I make a mental note and promise myself I’ll take a walk on the beach this afternoon after work and lunch with my friend, Lindsey.

  With another deep breath, I turn back inside and pour some cream into my coffee, then carry it with me into the living room.

  This is my typical morning routine, seven days a week, whether rain or shine. I sit on a small pillow in the corner of the room, crisscross applesauce, close my eyes, and begin my meditation.

  I go to my happy place in my mind.

  It’s on a boat at a marina in Seattle with Archer. Even after all these years, following drama and hurt and more shit than I care to dwell on, it’s always Archer I think about when I go to my happy place.

  His smile. His gentle hands. Archer was my safe place, my constant source of stability in a life that was anything but stable.

  When you’re the daughter of a mob boss, life is damn scary.

  Three minutes later, with a clear mind and relaxed shoulders, I retrieve my coffee and go about the rest of my routine. Shower. Makeup. Hair up in a ponytail.

  When I’m dressed and have another cup of coffee in my trusty Girls rule! to-go mug, I set off for work in my old, rusted-out Buick. Saying it’s second-hand is too kind. It was most likely fifth-hand.

  But it does the job and gets me to and from just fine.

  It also doesn’t draw any unwanted attention.

  It’s a ten-minute drive to the rescue. I park in my usual spot and walk into the nursery, which is dimly lit as soft music plays through Bluetooth speakers.

  It feels like a spa. Like someone’s going to hand me a robe and a cup of tea and lead me back to a massage room.

  But instead, we have mountain lion cubs, raccoon kits, and a baby sloth, all waiting for my attention.

  “Hey, Ally.”

  I smile, used to being called Ally now. I changed my name when I moved to Bandon, complete with a credit history, passport, and driver’s license. All after I spent two years in California under a different name. Unfortunately, I ran into a school friend unexpectedly at the vineyard that I worked at and had to run again.

  The mob has connections for a girl who needs to disappear.

  “Good morning, Chad.” I smile at the man, who’s feeding one of the mountain lion cubs with a bottle. “How did it go last night?”

  “Pretty normal,” he says. “Cleaned up a bunch of poop and fed roughly four hundred bottles.”

  I laugh at the exaggeration, although there have been times when it felt like that many.

  “Is everyone healthy?”

  “Raccoon kit red didn’t want to eat,” he says with a frown, nodding at the pen behind me. “Keep an eye on her.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  We tie strings of different colors around the animals’ necks so we can tell them apart from each other and keep accurate records on each one.

  I love this job. It’s exactly what I always wanted to do, even when I was a little girl. I’m fiercely protective of it, and I don’t even care that I work six hours a day, seven days a week since we lost an employee last year and haven’t replaced her.

  This is where I’m needed, and I love it.

  Really. I do.

  “Thanks for meeting me for lunch,” my friend, Lindsey, says with a happy sigh as we sit in our booth at the diner downtown. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I know. We had two bear cubs come in a couple of weeks ago after their mother was poached, and they require around-the-clock care. Work’s just been really busy.”

  “Ally, you need to have more than wild animals in your life.”

  “No.” I sip my Coke. “I don’t.”

  “Sure, you do. You’re a young, vibrant, beautiful woman. You need a man.”

  I shake my head.

  “A woman?”

  I laugh and sip my drink again. “I don’t have time or the need for a relationship.”

  “We make time for the things that are important to us,” she says with absolute sincerity in her voice. “I know some single guys—”

  “Seriously. I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She sighs and smiles at the waitress who’s just appeared to take our order. “Hey, Kate. I’ll have the chicken salad sandwich with fries.”

  “Taco salad for me,” I say, and we pass her our menus. “What have you been up to?”

  “Work, mostly.”

  I raise a brow. “Hi there, pot, I’m kettle.”

  She snorts. “I know, I sound like a hypocrite. The spa has been super busy this summer with the crazy tourist season.”

  Lindsey manages the spa for a big resort that sits right on the water. I met her three summers ago when I went in for a massage that had been a gift from my boss.

  “So, you must have broken things off with Peter?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Peter was a jerk. He brought me coffee to work one day—”

  “Totally a jerk.”

  “—and he also had two donuts with him. He ate them both in front of me. I mean, what kind of monster does that?”

  “I might have decked him.”

  “I thought about it.” Lindsey shakes her head. “So, yeah, I broke that off. You know what we need?”

  “I think you’re about to tell me.”

  “A girls’ night out.” She smiles, clearly proud of herself, and I shake my head. “Come on, Al, we’re not nuns. We should go out and let loose a little bit. Maybe meet a hot dude and have a little fun.”

  “I work super early in the morning. You remember that, right?”

  “Everyone needs a day off. Even you.”

  “Until we find someone to replace Stephanie, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

  Lindsey scowls and glances up at a TV that’s silently playing the news above my head.

  “Oh, man.”

  “What?”

  She gestures to the TV with her chin. “I used to be obsessed with that family when I was younger.”

  “What family?”

  I turn to look at the TV and freeze.

  Matriarch of most powerful mafia family on the west coast dead.

  That would be my grandmother.

  My grandma is gone.

  I watch the words scroll on the screen as blood rushes through my ears, blocking everything out. My grandmother, the most important person in my life, is gone, and I can’t talk to anyone about it. I can’t call my cousins or my uncle, Carlo, to ask how it happened or to find out when her service is so I can go home for it.

  I can’t do anything.

  “Ally.”

  I turn and blink at Lindsey, who’s now scowling at me.

&n
bsp; “Yeah?”

  “I called your name like ten times. Where did you go?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I was just reading about the story.”

  “The Watkins and Martinelli families always fascinated me,” she continues, sprinkling salt on her fries. “I mean, the sons on the Martinelli side? Have you seen them? Talk about hot. I might be willing to be a mobster wife if I could snag me one of those.”

  I blink at the plate of food in front of me. When did it arrive?

  “I mean, how weird would it be to be part of that family?” she continues. “I always thought the mafia was something from the 1920s, not modern-day.”

  I nod, my mind racing.

  “You know what? I forgot about an appointment I have this afternoon.” I set my napkin on the table and reach for my purse. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

  “You haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “You can have it boxed up.”

  I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’m sorry. Here’s a twenty.”

  I toss the bill on the table and hurry away, trying to control the tears until I’m in my car alone. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m such an idiot. Acting this way will only draw attention to myself, and it’ll have Lindsey asking questions later.

  Like…why would the death of an old woman I don’t even know make me so crazy?

  I hurry to my car. Once inside, I drive away, leaving Bandon behind. Twenty miles later, I enter a Walmart and hurry back to the electronics section.

  I can’t call my family. They don’t know where I am. My grandmother made sure of that eight years ago. I endured four more years of being under my father’s thumb before he was sent to prison and was killed there. My mother was also murdered, and my grandmother sent me away, afraid that I would be the next target.

  No one knows where I am.

  But there’s one person I can contact. I need to speak to someone from my life in Seattle.

  I purchase the burner phone, and when I’m safely in my car again, I turn it on and punch in the number I memorized years ago.

  I always send Anastasia the same text. Always. But not this time. Because I’m not just checking in to see how Archer’s doing.

  Me: Have you seen the news?

  I sit and breathe, close my eyes, and do my best not to dissolve into hysterics. It won’t do me any good to sob uncontrollably in the parking lot of a Walmart.

  Get it together, Elena.

  Less than a minute later, I get a reply.

  Unknown: I did. I’m so sorry, E. How can I help?

  The tears come anyway.

  There’s nothing Anastasia can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m on my own. I’ve been on my own for almost a decade, but I always knew that if push came to shove, I could contact my grandmother, and she’d help me.

  But now, she’s gone.

  I haven’t seen or spoken to her in eight years. She warned me then, sternly, that I had to stay hidden, couldn’t blow my cover. She said when the time was right, she’d bring me home.

  Even when everything went to shit six years ago at the vineyard, she never contacted me directly. My situation was handled quickly and quietly without a word from her.

  Because one doesn’t simply leave the mob. Especially the daughter of the boss. There’s no way out. But I’ve had a reprieve. And I pray that I can stay hidden, that she took our secret with her to the grave. I hope that I’m as safe here in my little haven as I was the day I arrived.

  I wipe the tears away and reply to Anastasia.

  Me: Nothing to do. I just needed something from home. Been to any new restaurants lately?

  That last line is my usual one, the one that secretly asks if Archer’s okay. The man never stops eating. The response is always the same unless something is wrong.

  So far, nothing’s ever been wrong.

  I need to check on him. To make sure he’s safe and that my family hasn’t done anything to him, especially after the way my father threatened to kill him.

  Unknown: Nothing new lately!

  That’s the right answer.

  I wipe the history on the phone, then place it under the tire of my car and drive over it, making sure it’s good and smashed before I drive back to Bandon.

  I don’t even own a cell phone as Ally. I have a house phone at my cottage with old-fashioned voicemail where the few people who call me can reach me.

  That’s usually just my work and Lindsey. I stick to myself. I don’t trust anyone, and truth be told, I’m not good with people. Because letting people get too close means establishing a relationship, and relationships only lead to heartache.

  Been there, done that, have the scars to show for it.

  I wipe my cheeks all the way home, letting myself cry and feel the absolutely stabbing pain the loss of my grandmother has brought.

  I park in front of the cottage, hurry inside, and lock the door behind me. I run up to my bedroom and open the bottom drawer of my dresser.

  Under my socks and underwear is a framed photo. The only one I allowed myself to bring with me when I fled Seattle all those years ago.

  In it, I’m about ten, dressed in a white dress. It was my first communion. The mafia may be full of murdering philanderers, but they’re staunchly Catholic.

  Sitting next to me, smiling down at me, is my grandmother.

  I hug the photo to my chest and give in to not only the tears from earlier, but also the sobs that have wanted to come since I saw the news report in the diner.

  I wish, with all my heart, that I could go to the funeral. To be there to say goodbye to the best person I’ve ever known. I owe her that, especially after everything she did for me. But how? I can’t be seen. It would blow my cover, and the last thing I need is for the family to find me.

  All I know is, as I sit here sobbing, I need to go to Seattle. I quickly search my grandmother’s name on my iPad and see that her funeral is in two days. I have two days to figure this out.

  And that just makes me cry harder.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, rocking back and forth, hugging the image of us together, but finally the tears ebb, and I reach for a tissue to blow my nose and wipe the mess from my cheeks.

  I carry the photo downstairs with me and pour myself a glass of wine, then curl up on the couch. I didn’t take that walk on the beach. I could still go. There are at least two more hours of sunlight left. The beach helps to ground me, clears my head. And God knows I could use a clear head to figure this out. To remind myself that Grandma would not want me to go to Seattle for her funeral. Yes, a walk on the beach is exactly what I need.

  But I’m drained. I’m so damn sad. I feel helpless.

  Just as I resolve to spend the evening right here on the sofa with a bottle of wine and sappy movies on the TV, there’s a knock on the door.

  I frown. No one ever comes to my door unless they’re lost.

  Fuck. Did the family discover where I am? Did they come to find me?

  My first instinct is to run.

  But that’s ridiculous. Grandma wouldn’t have told anyone where I am, and she literally just died.

  It’s not the family.

  Someone is probably lost.

  However, when the knock comes again, I stand and tuck my trusty handgun into my shorts, then with the photo still in my hands, walk over to the door and look through the peephole. I feel my knees almost give out at the sight before me.

  My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Maybe there was something in the wine. How long had it been in my fridge?

  “Elena,” he says, loud enough for me to hear through the door. “I know you’re in there.”

  I swallow hard. This can’t be happening.

  “Open this door, Elena.”

  Elena.

  No one has called me that in eight years.

  I open the door and stare up at what must be a figment of my imagination.

  “Archer?”

  Chapter 2
>
  ~Archer~

  I’ve been watching her for days. It sounds creepy as fuck, but once I found her, I just didn’t know what to say. I thought I’d rush to her, yank her into my arms, and kiss her until we were both breathless.

  But I couldn’t approach her. Memories rolled through me as I watched her. The way we laughed, the long, deep conversations. How I couldn’t bear to be away from her for more than a couple of hours, and each time I saw her again, it was a balm to my soul.

  God, I loved her.

  Instead, all I could do was watch her. At some point, she dyed her hair a shade darker than her natural color, but aside from that, she looks the same. Slim body, gorgeous eyes, and just like the last time I laid eyes on her, her bottom lip wobbles, and those interesting orbs fill with tears.

  Except this time, it’s not because we’re standing in front of the justice of the peace, exchanging wedding vows.

  “Archer?”

  “Hello, Elena. Can I come in?”

  She swallows hard and steps back so I can walk inside her tiny house. She’s tucked in this little cabin at the end of a dirt road, all alone in a tiny town on the coast.

  I have questions, and damn it, I’m going to get some answers.

  “Did you see the news?” she asks.

  “No, but Anastasia called me.” I want to reach for her, wrap my arms around her and soothe her. But she’s standing a good six feet away, cradling a picture frame to her chest. Her body language screams: stay back. “I’m sorry.”

  She nods once and turns away to sit on the couch.

  There’s an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, and a half-empty glass. So, before I sit next to her, I fill the glass and pass it to her.

  “Thanks.” She takes a sip and watches me silently for a moment. I can admit, after all of these years of being without her, this isn’t exactly how I pictured our reunion going. But I’m letting her take the lead here because she has grief written all over her face. “What kind of car are you driving?”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Just tell me.”