by Ava Claire
“The closest thing I ever got to the real thing was having my son,” Alicia confessed.
Jacob shifted beside me, fighting his own internal battle. I knew that a life of disappointments, of his own wants and needs always coming up empty was ringing in his head. His mother had kept him at a distance; kept him from finding any solace or comfort in her words, even though I felt her trying to reach him. Trying to make amends.
“As you can probably tell from the pained look on my son’s face, the sins of my father, of my parents, were visited on him.” Alicia continued, biting her lip.
Jacob didn’t say a word, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “And the sins of his father, too.”
Alicia didn’t meet my eye, but the quiver that fluttered through her chin told me that the blow had landed. She swallowed, the sound echoing in the tense silence. “And now I’m alone. Because I spent my life chasing approval and love instead of appreciating what I had-” Her words were cut off when Angelique pressed the blade against her throat. Like she had with Tomás, with one key difference.
Her eyes were filled with fear...and Jacob was on his feet, ready to save his mother, or die trying.
“You think you know me?” Angelique hissed. “That you’re gonna save me?”
The gasp was a distant memory as Alicia lifted her chin, barely wincing as the blade scuffed her flesh because of the tiny movement. “You’re not listening, Angelique. No one can save you. You have to save yourself.”
I reached for my husband, pulling at his shirt, pleading with him. “Jacob...”
He looked ready to end this whole thing, to do something that while well deserved after what Angelique had signed off on, was still something that he wouldn’t recover from.
And death...it was a kindness that Angelique didn’t deserve.
We were at a standoff.
The words to make everyone take a step back and diffuse the situation wouldn’t come.
And then other words, spoken in a syrupy thick accent, dark and insidious, came spilling into the room.
“I’m not sure how things are done in America, but where I’m from, it’s bad manners to start the party before all the guests have arrived.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
If we weren't literally in a life or death situation, finally coming face to face with Lars Eichmann would have been hilarious. It had nothing to do with his poor attempt at humor, or the shit eating grin that he graced us all with.
It was the fact that he was a caricature of every villain from every crime movie I'd seen.
It was more than his physical presence; the way he took up the entire doorway with his body, equal measures of muscle and hard living. His suit was a little too respectable, like a man who spent a lot of years being disrespected and was making up for it by going above and beyond. Two piece suits were too casual for Eichmann, complete with glittering gold buttons and a pocket watch that was clearly for show because who used pocket watches these days?
Like the rest of his crew, Eichmann kept his hair buzzed short, but his hairdo was probably meant to camouflage his receding hairline. Still, most of my evaluation was superficial. White noise. He earned the title of 'bad guy' because when I looked into his eyes, I saw nothing. No compassion. No humanity. No conscience. The emerald green was the dull color of money and excess. I'd done some research and I knew he was in his early 50’s, but the lines that weaved through his face put an extra ten years on him. Enough time that he should have known better, should have learned that eventually, the villain always gets their due, but his self righteous smirk told me that the only thing that would put an end to his criminal career was death or life in prison. As he leaned against the door jam, grinning at the fact that his daughter had a switchblade against someone's threat, I couldn't decide which I preferred.
"Alicia Whitmore," he leered at my mother-in-law like she was a piece of meat, undressing her with his dull green eyes, lingering on her breasts. "It is such a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh."
Correction: I knew exactly which I preferred.
"You son of a BITCH!" Jacob roared, hurling a chair out of the way, the table likely the next obstacle he'd discard to get to the man who'd been stalking us. Plotting the revenge that brought us to this moment.
I watched the scene unfold in slow motion, my gut churning with dread because I remembered this out of body experience. Back in the room, I'd been so petrified by the thought of that knife. At someone being hurt because of me. Now, I couldn't find my voice. I couldn't breathe because I saw this going horribly wrong. Jacob was on the warpath, blinded by rage. Practically around the table with his fingers around Eichmann’s throat. Dealing out justice. Wiping him from the face of the earth. In the heat of the moment, I couldn't say the words that would stop him. I just wanted that sneering face of Eichmann's to go away, before he hurt anyone else. Waiting on the slow, erratic gears of the legal system seemed like a gift Eichmann didn't deserve.
But there was a reason Angelique wasn't rushing to her father's aide. And Eichmann didn't look remotely worried.
Before I could blink my eyes or yell for Jacob to stop or be careful, I realized that I was the one that needed to be careful, because Eichmann showed that while his daughter preferred knives, he liked to take care of business the old fashioned way.
A streak of gray snatched my heart from my chest when the man whipped out a gun...and pointed it directly at my head.
Jacob froze, almost within choking distance, whirling back to me with pain and regret seizing every inch of his beautiful face. His roar had been lowered to a whisper, but it was just as deadly. "If you harm her-"
"Oh, save the threats, Jacob," Eichmann chuckled. "If I harm her, you'll watch—and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it."
I took the tiniest breath, my hands gripping my belly. Alicia was still occupied with her own dilemma, Angelique still holding her at knifepoint, but we'd both heard the word.
Eichmann had said ‘if,’ not ‘when’ he harmed me.
Hope flickered between us, and it gave me the strength to take another breath. All bets were far from off since we were dealing with a family that took great pride in playing with people before they ended them...and that would be their downfall. We just had to keep them talking, patting themselves on the back for the great heist they'd pulled off; stroke their ego just long enough for the police to arrive.
Jacob was weighing out his options, his fists still balled and ready to beat the man to death, but understanding how unlikely it was for him to do so before Eichmann got a shot or two off. He tilted his chin towards his mother and Angelique. Angelique smiled serenely, her fingers dancing on the hilt of the switchblade like a flute. Without uttering a sound, she’d answered his question
Yes, I will slice her throat wide open.
Fury still held my man hostage, those fists aching, his jaw so tight that my own ached, and if looks could kill, Eichmann would have met his end very slowly, but Jacob's shoulders relaxed. He took on the tone of a hostage negotiator, his cadence level and non combative. "We're all here." He slowly brought a hand to his face, gesturing at his bruises. "You got what you wanted. There's no reason for anyone else to be harmed."
Eichmann still pointed the gun at me, his sneer permanently affixed to his face. "That's where you're wrong. There's always a reason to harm someone. To show force. To remind them of their place. To educate."
His complete and utter bullshit hung in the air, stinking up the place. Jacob was trying to diffuse a man who had gone rogue long ago, replacing colored wires with barbed ones. The only way to take him down was to take yourself down. He was literally forcing us to play his rigged game, where there were no rules. Only devastation. Going nuclear.
No one would win.
And to be honest, I didn't much like some asshole pointing a gun at me and my baby, even if said asshole was liable to pull the trigger if I didn't stay in line.
Fuck the line.
I leaned back in
the chair, burning a hole in his head because I had no desire to stare down the barrel of his gun. “So, you're doing some sort of public service, Mr. Eichmann?"
He used his empty hand to mime tipping his imaginary hat to me. "Leila, I'm pointing a gun at your beautiful head. I think it's appropriate for us to forego the stuffy formality." He winked at me and I felt a renewed desire to throw up. “And please, call me Lars."
"I think I'll stick with Mr. Eichmann," I ignored him, a flash of fear cutting through me when anger curdled his lips at my insubordination. I was risking a lot by speaking at all. And that my words weren't 'please have mercy on us' likely didn't help the hot tempered man calm down.
Most people would be shitting their pants, being over accommodating, pleading, hoping for the best. Even Alicia and Jacob, both incapable of not showing that Whitmore fire, had fallen silent.
And I knew it had nothing to do with self preservation. Alicia didn't have to help her staff. Once upon a time, I would've believed that she'd use them as human shields to protect herself and this whole ordeal had shown me a different side to Alicia: her humanity. And Jacob? He was ready to take on a hail of bullets just to get me out. To save me and our baby. The sacrifice they made and were still making emboldened me.
Angelique and her father were having too much fun. If they hurt me, that fun would come to a swift and bloody end. I put hard money on the fact that I could pick at the thread Angelique had unwittingly given me with her childhood story and watch their relationship unravel before my very eyes. And if I was right about Eichmann, he'd have no problem shifting that gun from me to his daughter. If they were busy tearing each other apart, they wouldn't notice the sirens until it was too late to do anything about it.
"Do you remember the goldfish?"
Eichmann's emerald eyes glinted with confusion and he tilted the gun slightly, now pointed at my throat instead of my head.
Progress.
"What?" he grunted.
"The goldfish," I repeated, knowing he’d started off on the wrong foot from the way Angelique had lifted the blade of her knife from Alicia's neck. I could have been juggling bowling balls or doing a tap dancing routine or singing some song at the top of my lungs and she wouldn't have noticed. Nothing mattered and nothing existed outside of her father's answer.
Eichmann didn't know it yet, but a goldfish was about to bring his entire kingdom crashing down.
“Your daughter’s pet?” I said, my forehead creasing with feigned confusion. "You know, the goldfish."
Alicia's eyebrows shot up several inches, laying it on. "Father of the Year, clearly."
Angelique tapped Alicia's shoulder with her blade, a warning, but it was clear she had a new target.
Eichmann looked at the group of us like he'd just entered the twilight zone. "What goldfish? Is this some sort of joke?"
I stroked my belly with a sigh, shaking my head for good measure. "Look at your daughter's face and ask her if this is some sort of joke."
He lowered his gun, about to do just that when he remembered Jacob and trained the gun on him instead. My nerves were on edge, the sight of the man I loved being inches away from death. It sett every nerve in my body on fire. Not Jacob though. He relaxed when the gun was on him.
Because it wasn't on me.
I didn't know if I wanted to kiss him or throttle him.
I decided that I'd go with door number 3, the door that would take us all out of harm's way. Steer the conversation until the only two people in the room where Lars and Angelique, left to sift through the wreckage of their past and a future rife with consequences.
And a whole lot of free time for regret, behind bars.
I tried to not worry about Jacob, the baby doing a wiggle to remind me that everything would be okay. It had to be.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," I clucked my tongue disapprovingly, fighting the urge to laugh at my mother-in-law. Alicia was shaking her head, like she had a leg to stand on in the Disappointing Your Children department. "A father that would discard a family pet would just brush it off like a blip on his radar. Not even a blip," I corrected as Eichmann continued to eyeball me like I was speaking pig Latin or growing a limb from my forehead. "It's pretty clear that you have no idea what I'm talking about."
“Mario," Angelique squeaked. "You remember him, Papa. You won him for me at the fair."
He blinked at her like he wasn't sure who was in front of him. "Angelique, please tell me that your little goldfish story was part of a greater plot to gain this woman's trust."
For the first time all day, Angelique looked like she was at a loss for words.
Like she was afraid.
"Angelique!" Eichmann snapped, and I held my breath as he took a step towards Jacob. At that range, Jacob didn’t stand a chance.
Jacob's ramrod spine told me that he was thinking the same thing.
Once I saw past the panic that was making it hard for me to sit still, to keep trying to pit father against daughter, I realized that while Eichmann had the gun on Jacob, Angelique was the one in his sights.
Angelique looked like a scared little girl who wanted to run and hide. I knew that once she got over the familiar angst and fear that was clearly the bedrock of their relationship, there was a ferocity that matched her father's. A daughter who had some things to get off her chest.
Fingers shaking, but wiping everything but disappointment from my voice, I snapped my napkin and draped it in my lap. "There's no need to yell, Mr. Eichmann. Hasn't there been enough yelling? Isn't that exactly what you did instead of comforting your daughter in her time of need?"
He threw daggers on my direction. "Comfort? An Eichmann doesn't need such things. We're made of stronger stuff than that." It was clearly a dig at us, and he did one better, spitting directly on the dining room table.
I'd been planning on dialing up my faux ambivalence by taking a bite or two of the bruschetta, bringing Alicia in on my ploy by offering her a taste, but the loogie the bastard hawked in my direction axed that plan. Instead, I scooped a bundle of mahogany curls behind my ear and gave as good as I got, glaring at Eichmann. Channeling Angelique's hurt that was so clear, so palpable, that a blind man could see it. Eichmann was clearly unreachable because everyone in the room could tell that he didn't give two shits about any goldfish and was offended by his daughter's show of perceived weakness.
"I don't think it's a stretch to say that your daughter needs a little comfort," I shrugged. "Maybe it was just a goldfish to you, but for Ang, I'm thinking it was the point where she stopped being daddy's little girl and had to become daddy's little soldier. Stop crying. Stop caring."
"This is nonsense," Eichmann snorted. He waved the gun at a chair, growling at Jacob. "Have a seat." When Jacob didn't budge, he made it clear it wasn't a request. "I have no problem shooting you in the kneecap and accomplishing the same end."
Jacob straightened himself, turning back to the table and locking eyes with me. He mouthed three words that breathed new life and hope into me.
I love you.
My lips twitched with emotion and I hugged my belly tighter and said it back. I felt eyes on me, the first set Alicia’s, who flashed us a dignified thumb’s up by ducking her head to her chest. The second was Angelique, still lost in memories, lost in a childhood that was probably spent learning that things like love were weakness.
Had her father ever even said those words to her?
Had he ever told her he loved her?
I tried to dislodge the images of that crying little girl from my mind. Tried to not let my conscience wreak havoc on me and keep me from the task at hand. Sure, her story was a sad one, and the two people who'd forced their way into our lives were the only two that knew the true depth of that sadness...and it still didn't excuse a damn thing.
Bad things happened to good people, every day. Parents failed their children and sometimes that ache was visited on a new generation. Passed on like eye color and personality quirks.
And every
day, we had a choice. We could break the cycle. We could choose to get help. To start over. To do things differently.
Angelique had made her choice. She chose to be like her father; to let his poison seep into her blood and corrupt her. She chose to follow in his footsteps, and she didn't deserve my pity.
That little girl was gone.
The bitter, evil woman holding the switchblade was all that was left.
So even though my heart broke for the little girl, I picked up my own weapon, my words, and I buried my verbal blade deep.
"Do you even love your daughter, Eichmann?"
There was only one right answer to that question. Even he had to know that every child just wants to be loved by their parents. That his daughter was hanging on by a thread, struggling to grasp something real. That all of this was her monument to a father who never quite gave her his stamp of approval. And she would do anything, die for him, kill for him, and soon, go to prison for him, if he would just say that he loved her.
If he just said yes.
Eichmann didn't answer right away, turning instead to the bar on the far wall. It took all of my restraint to not scream. To not grab my family and get the hell out of dodge. I bided my time, hoping that he wouldn't pick now as the moment to finally be the father Angelique so desperately craved.
I was counting on his answer being a resounding no, which would make Angelique forget all else but clawing her father's eyes from his skull.
But if he said yes...
Eichmann retrieved his own glass, pausing to comment on the fact that he was serving himself. "First billionaire's home I've been in where a man has to pour his own booze."
My throat tightened and my eyes shot to Jacob, worried that would make Angelique change the subject. Always the dutiful daughter, hustling to the kitchen to yell at the non existent waitstaff. The pieces would fall in place and they would burn rubber, realizing that at any moment, the cavalry would arrive.